
Class P Z ?> 

Book L, 

Copyright N®,__ 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 





7 / 


I • K •• 














r 


■ ' / 


V-. 

4 j • V V 


®! 


f'r 


4 ♦!' 


I » 


<W\/{ 


A 


■©S-' 


Ih • A/W] 




7 ». 




• t 




II s 

ft} 


> 


i»< 




,1 ,.>■. 






i. 


k-* *, 




IS.- 


tl'C 


* r 


1 1. 


lO-a 




-tti 










rii#' 






< /■ 


» ( 


i \ 


; ' ■' i 


fJIii 


'y '/J 




h 


1 




» 7. 


f 4 ,' »t 






•>f^ 


iv 




»• 'l JL? 


» •, ‘ ■< 


t>< 


• .1 - ff *' • * ^ 1 ' * I* • / / 1 j. .» 






7' 








aV 




•* • 




LVr 


V 


»,v 


m 




*■ it* 




rV-A 


.iw\»r 




r' tJ 


'fil . 


> t. 


I. i* i -: 


«» 


'I 


^V:fi 


ffi 


7 .fi 


.»• 








V 




* . * 




;r^j' 


t7 


> V 


rKv, 

' ' I d ^ 


';ii 












% 




‘; 7.- 


t 


, > '< 


'-f, 


t 


't' 














b: 


It’-* ;< 




1 ■ 


.» / 






V'^ 


f» 


N ’ »• 




Vf 


'I 


> i 


9i 








» w 


.*/i 


^15| 


'■<7% 


‘. > 




H. 


/ A. 


* 










' , » 




W: 


» 


vv 


nj 


A-rr 


A. 


.1 '- ‘ 


►' 


uH*; 


y‘ 


X^>‘ 










r» 


•■/i 


\\ 


/I. '. 


■' »■ 




y!,‘A^'l 


TT * 




i.'Y-i 


* .f-> 


i I 


% A' 


K-* 


\ f 


Iti 




* • 


I 


■ 


V- ♦ 


." ^l 


(C^ 


•j 


IV 


■ISm. 


m 


>. *~t, 


r: .• 


V> 


rj»f 


.1.1 


7. 


t. 


}jt‘ 


'V, ViL' 






A {?■;•. 






u 


• * 1 . 




K\ 


r# 




rViT 


8 


•i’ 


'j.-l' 


• > - #s 


!<- 


- 1 




' • • 

. # 


' 4 *-. 




r\ 




i^' 


»SR 


r- 




1. 0 


; 


iva 


^.1 


r. \ 


¥• ‘ 


.» _'t Vi 




/ h 


> ►Vr* 


^ *1 


'f' 






7 • 


>'V 


> i 


i . >’ 





Wi 






:« 


• t »* 


4.'. 


I* 


:.‘i^ *' > 


» ■ 


K 


n 






• I t 


i.‘ 


>-i 


VJ‘ 




. t 


^ » 


' 

If « ^ ^ 






,:<*;• 7*,k, 


I * . I 


l <A 


k t 




, . V V ' 1 j i. W .,*, ■ * 

- - ; • ' '• 


I*,. • 


■' ‘ 4 v' ’v:'iiS*^'' ■■•■'■•'''^ ' 




‘ .V ‘ 

7 »< 


c 



'iJ , w- 1 - J-**- *• 
Vs - 




t 


% 


■*» 

















■>V' 


.mv: 


^ r 


• I 


,1 


\ ' '•; 





' 4 :t' ,* j • '■■ ■ .' ' 



»";,V- v-ji 
•: ' Mf - . .’Ai 



f- jn • v« ■ 

, ,j . ^ 





r . 




3 


/rf ^iw 

<' .■^*. •> 



. r 


V 'M- 


f I 


« ^ 




■ '- * *•■ ■ . ,/ ’ ^.1 - f 

.•• ,'» ' v\ /•, ‘L -V • y"’,v 

. ■: ■'; 'A 

■ * •- *• 

' 




■•‘j .j • ".i-j • . • fi 


KV^.. 


.'/■■^t- . ■ '• / 



•C* J > 

.•'’'■■ v,. 



“■V4± ' • ., ^ ■ ' 





A?... '.F 


irLi£". 




‘ s ^ '*A ‘ 7 ' 
Wvi, *; * ' . • 


.-f .i/ 


) . 



i 









' .)^’1 

, '.'. . ‘t 


=:i ^ 

■1. - ; W .'MM 


' « 



i 

i 





a 



••f i: 



r'A .il 


' -/V 


u*."' .' ' 1 /:. 






B> ■*'vi ’'#ii 











r ;■> ;. • ^ , r.. 


AND 





* ; j ' ; * ; . j I* i « 

* /is: -. " . ' • 


EUGENE FRANCIS 


Entered cxccordin? io ekcd 


. Ot' ‘ 

A" .’■' ; - ■ 

,> ■ ' •• ’ f . 


o 


in 



of New York, in fh 


■ •" ' '1. 

I c e 




s«s •; <• 


19 04. by C. Monk, Ben for)-' 




Si 


of Coiigreo’6', Wa6hi 


on 


D. C 


A 







Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1904 
by C. Mont. Benton, of New York, in the office of 
Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 




OR 


Unto the Third and Fourth 
Generation. 

BY 

Charles Wathen Chase 

AND 

Eugene Francis 

**Crime and punishment grow out of one stem. Punishment 
is a fruit that unsuspected ripens within the dower of pleasure 
which concealed it.” Emerson. 


PUBLISHED BY 

CHARLES MONTGOMERY BENTON, 

NEW YORK. 


V 


PZ'i 

.cast L 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies rteceiveo 


DEC 9 jyU4 

^ OopyriKiii tniry / 

V# / 

iljLnSS CL AXc. No; 
/(fcTxTf 
COPY bi 



\ 


CONTENTS 


Chapter I — A False Friend. 

Chapter II — A Burial at Sea. 

Chapter III — The Castle on the Hudson. 

Chapter IV — A Ghost of a Love of the Past. 

Chapter V — Graduation Day at West Point. 

Chapter VI — Home from a Foreign Land. 

Chapter VII — The Meeting of the Waters. 

Chapter VIII — A Strange Will. 

Chapter IX — Home, Sweet Home. 

Chapter X — A Sunday School Picnic in Central Park. 
Chapter XI — A Question Raised and Answered. 

Chapter XII — In a Hospital Tent in Cuba. 

Chapter XIII — The Major Scatters Some Philosophy. 

Chapter XIV — A Stolen Hour in Arcadia. 

Chapter XV — Christmas Night. 

Chapter XVI — A Storm and a Wreck. 

Chapter XVII — “Sweethearts and Wives.” 

Chapter XVIII — The Old Story — but with a Difference. 
Chapter XIX — An Unrequitted Love. 

Chapter XX — Alone. 

Chapter XXI — The Twain o’ Them. 

Chapter XXII — Journey’s End and Lover’s Meeting, 

Chapter XXIII — A Strange Ghost. 

Chapter XXIV — The Passing of Burt. 

Chapter XXV — The Honeymoon and the Awakening. 

Chapter XXVI — A Night of Horror, 

Chapter XXVII— The Wages of Sin. 

Chapter XXVIII — Bread Cast Upon the Waters Will Return. 
Chapter XXIX — Forgotten in the 'Hour of Trouble. 

Chapter XXX — Weary of Life’s Struggle. 

Chapter XXXI — Julian and Mary Face to Face, 

Chapter XXXII — The Charge of Murder. 

Chapter XXXIII — The Ring Asunder Broke. 

Chapter XXXIV — J^aring the Battle Drums. 

Chapter XXXV — The Prisoner in the Tombs. 

Chapter XXXVI — In the Court of General Sessions. 

Chapter XXXVII — Sentenced for Life. 

Chapter XXXVIH — In Dannemora Prison. 

Chapter XXXIX — Unto the Third and the Fourth Generation. 
Chapter XL — The End. 


^ ^ * 'V % ■ ' . ' f '■ 4 ' . ‘ • 


_ > 


f - 


( • 

'»• • 




r- • 
<■- 




--< ’ ' V .; V ♦ 

" m 





> . 

A < 

4 

'* t & ' 


i 


s ♦ »i » ♦ 





«. * 


• 

• 

^ ■ 4 A 

'■ < »' '.' 

;**•’ 

* ft’ ^ 

' •.. - 

i r\-V 

• * » 

• ' • V 

:-»*Hr 

ft •• 

>^ . 



iyV- 


- r->.i 7 ‘ ■‘J‘:i''f >;■ ' ‘ ^ ' • 

' •• • - •• ; - 


mi^.: .^■^'. 'm. 

. C’ ' ' ' 

■ : W 




.> «• 


I 


am 


•> ^ , , , y. 


* « ^ 


V’ 


‘ wM-:( t*' > 



n 

. i 


,. .y* ■ ■!-.■. V,''-; ... .,,, ^, • :• , , ,., . , _ 

i; • ■ . - .T '■ .,, . -•: •"'■■■ •' ■ .• •■> '■ '•■ ‘ • ■ ■ 

.vv * '■ ^.- V.; : t-: - •• 

' - ' »®l-- ^ -i ■ ■•' .■ • -••^• 

.■ :' kKri:. -.. ■ : jrt . ■ -M'S.-/: S ' : ‘x- 


*• 






, f 

■,- -T 


• ♦ r.’i * 


* t >' 
'n.r** 


s 

j* ■ . 


^:v.-. 


"fy'- ■' 

V. ' 


f 

4 











/• . \ ■ 


if i * ''. *-.^* . 

^-V - 


• >., e • -- - *^v« • o 

f ■- V . 


. S' 


lll_A ^ ‘ • '. 


->> 



* ' J!" 

r^if J . 

ji^c ■ * V r ^ ♦ 

*'"v 





*' "* • . 










? . 


• '/• 



, “ ‘X . ' 

-1 - , A , 

' -^ ' . i V V^'i ■■ 

' . ‘ . ^.V-; - 

v^.., . . _ J 


t # 

* 




4 t 


-A*: »irv 



' r^* “B» « M 

■ ' -!.'i ■ 


^ - . 


.r-"‘ 


f 


4 


LL># • *-■ 

li-V > 


' « A _ 

. < . 


\y 


-> 1^*;' ■.!' 


'. * .T 2 r Cl 


T .* I 


Oii]^ 


CHAPTEE I. 


A FALSE FRIEND. 

“Fortune’s* worst shafts could ne’er have reached me more 
Nor envy’s poisoned fangs. By both assailed. 

In Innocence of soul completely mailed 
I scorned the hate whose power to wound was o’er ; 

When thou — whom In my heart of hearts I wore 
And as a rock of refuge often sought — 

Turned on myself the very arms I wrought.’’ 

— Torquato Tasso. 

Kind reader! Do you know what it means to be father- 
less, motherless, husbandless or wifeless — not because death 
has separated you from the one dearer to you than all others, 
but on account of a crime not of your own making, but one 
that has wrecked your life and made the world, which once 
seemed so bright and happy, a veritable prison in which your 
sphere of usefulness seems lost and your future appears so 
dark that you have often contemplated suicide as the only 
means to bring rest and peace from suffering far greater than 
it seems possible for you to bear? 

With such a feeling lived poor old Michael St. John. And 
yet ^^poor old Michael,” as they called him in his native town, 
was only forty-five. 

Forty-five! His hair white, his face wrinkled and his 
form so bent that a stranger, passing his pretty cottage and 
seeing him walking in his garden, leaning for support upon 
tlie shoulder of his only daughter, Mary, would take him for 
a man of sixty. 

So old before his time! 

And yet ten years previous to the opening of our story, 
there lived not a happier man in all the world than Michael 
St. John, the prosperous tavern-keeper of Cheltenham, one 
of the prettiest watering places and most fashionable resorts 
in western England. 

What caused the change ? 


6 


LIFE. 


A faithless wife and a false friend; that devilish com- 
bination which has sent thousands of honest men into 
eternity with the crime of murder on their souls, which has 
deprived myriads of children of parental love and care and 
so often driven them homeless into the world, cursing the 
mothers who bore them. 

When the Day of Judgment comes, there will be more 
mercy extended to the thief who has purloined earthly valu- 
ables than to the man who has stolen another’s wife. Lost 
jewels or money one may obtain again, but the lost virtue of 
a wife can never be regained. 

The great sorrow came to Michael during the eighth year 
of his married life; few husbands had enjoyed such marital 
happiness as he ; he had been the envied of all who knew him 
and no one had dreamed that the shadow of the serpent could 
ever cross the threshold of his door. 

But the friend came; an old schoolmate, the trusted, tried 
and faithful companion of his youth. For many months he 
had been in failing health and Michael had invited him to 
come to Cheltenham, to spend a few weeks at his home, urg- 
ing upon him the many benefits to be derived from the min- 
eral springs which have made that town a famous health 
resort for nearly two hundred years. 

He came ; he was received with open arms and while Mich- 
ael took care of his tavern, the friend drove daily with his 
wife through the green lanes of the country, or they walked 
together by the side of the river Chelt. 

And the tavern-keeper watched the glow of health return 
to the face of his friend; he noted the increasing happiness 
of his wife and his heart warmed towards the companion of 
his boyhood days; he rejoiced that he had been the instru- 
ment of added happiness to his heartib-circle. 

Little Mary was, at this time, a bright child of seven; all 
pink and white, like a spring lily; she had the softest baby 
curls, as pale and silken as a canary’s breast, and great blue 
eyes that looked out with childish innocence upon the world 
about her and so sweet was her disposition that the church- 


LIFE. 


7 


folk used to say that she had come direct from heaven, as a 
special blessing and reward for the perfect love of Michael 
and his wife. 

But little Mary was quick to notice the diminished meas- 
ure of her mother’s love, and going, one day, to her father, 
she said; “Papa, tell mama to take me with her when she 
goes walking with your friend.” 

^^Out of the mouth of hahes and suchlings come forth 
words of wisdom/^ but Michael was blind. 

“My little one can not walk as far as they do,” he answered. 
And he suspected nothing. 

And so the weeks passed into months; the leaves fell from 
the trees. Dark days were coming, dark days for the father, 
dark days for the mother ; and the life of the little one, which 
should have been so happy, was to be blighted, killed by a 
cruel frost, while still in the bud, for “the sins of the parents 
shall be visited upon the children,” so saith the Lord. 

And one day Mary came to her father and told him the 
story of her mother’s sin. 

She had seen, yet knew not what it meant. She told all 
and knew not the meaning of her words. 

A bitter quarrel followed; the erring wife and false friend 
went their way together, and Michael and his child were 
left alone. 

He sold his tavern and retired to his cottage on the out- 
skirts of the town and for ten years lived the life of a verit- 
able recluse, shunning his friends, shut out from intercourse 
with the world. Mary was his only companion, his only 
comforter. For him life held no charm except his daughter’s 
love. 

And Mary went to no school, receiving her education solely 
from her father. She had no friends, no acquaintances, and, 
at seventeen, was budding into innocent and sweetest woman- 
hood. 

Michael grew more anxious, daily, as to the fate of his 
little one. That she might never fully realize the great dis- 
grace caused by her mother’s sin, had been his one great ob- 


8 


LIFE. 


ject in keeping her secluded from the world, and now that 
she was almost a woman grown, he decided to sell his home 
and take her to America. No one in that far-off land knew 
their sorrow, no one could reveal to the girl the story of her 
mother’s shame, and the happiness which had so long been 
denied him, might yet be hers. 

In the Spring of 1898, Michael St. John sold his little 
cottage and all that it contained; although he tried to keep 
secret their destination. Dame Kumor soon whispered to the 
good citizens of Cheltenham, that father and daughter were 
going to the New World. And thus it happened that when 
Michael and his daughter were leaving the little cottage for 
the last time, a goodly number of people, who had known 
Michael in happier days, were there to say a kindly good-bye 
and bid a hearty God-speed. 

They stood by the gate, through which Mary and her 
father were to pass never to return. Honest tear-drops glis- 
tened in many eyes, and as Michael gazed around him, with 
a quiet nod, he silently bade farewell to many a well-tried 
and time-honored friend. 

Suddenly a loud sob rent the air. A woman, pale, dis- 
heveled, the marks of suffering and dissipation plainly re- 
flected upon her face, a creature thin and poorly clad, tried 
to elbow her way through the crowd. 

Michael saw her and for one moment it seemed to him that 
his heart stood still; then he turned, assisted Mary into the 
wagon which stood waiting, hastily took the seat beside her 
and whispered to the driver: “Whip up your horses and 
make haste.” 

A lusty “good-bye” shouted after them prevented him from 
hearing the screams of the woman, who fell fainting upon 
the pavement, as the wagon turned a corner in the road and 
was lost to sight. 

“Her sin has come to her at last,” said a pious fellow- 
member of Michael’s one-time church, as he, with the others, 
turned away from the woman lying moaning in the roadway. 

None would help her; none would give her succor. All 


LIFE. 


9 


knew her to be the mother of Mary and the dishonored wife 
of poor Michael, who through her sin were being driven from 
home and country, from relatives and friends and from all 
who knew and loved them. 

And Mary knew not her mother then, nor little dreamed 
under what strange circumstances they should meet again 
in the land beyond the sea. 


CHAPTEE II. 


A BURIAL AT SEA. 

“Let not a death unwept, unhonored, be 
The melancholy fate allotted me ! 

But those who love me living when I die 
Still fondly keep some cherished memory !” 

—Solon. 

A week after the events narrated in the previous chapter, 
one of the White Star Line’s fleetest of ocean greyhounds 
was three days out from Liverpool. 

It lacked but a few minutes to sundown. The sky, which 
had been clear and blue throughout the day, was already be- 
coming shrouded with a cloudy, vaporous mantle, which 
stretched continuously across the heavens, its cold, dark, pur- 
ple tints in the East contrasting strangely with its brilliant 
crimson mistiness to be seen in the west where the sun hung, 
like a great red globe of fire, just above the line of the 
horizon. 

The sea seemed to be trembling with light and color, but 
the swell was beginning to roll frothless; no speck of foam 
could be seen across its wide expanse and as the wind drop- 
ped, it became evident to those acquainted with the vagaries 
of the ocean that there would soon be a calm. 

On board was a multitude of souls, people of all classes 
and all countries, bound for a new world; many fresh from 
their native lands which they would never again behold. 

The supper bell had sounded and the decks were practically 
cleared of passengers, save a number of emigrants, who lay 
around the forward deck, too ill to partake of the ^^abundance 
of fresh provisions” served up on the ‘^steerage bill of fare,” 
of emigrant rations. 

The cabin passengers had all gone below except a young 


LIFE. 


11 


clergyman, who stood leaning over the taffrail, gazing at the 
antics of a huge shark, which seemed to creep stealthily 
through the water, its gleaming black fin glistening in the 
dying sunlight. 

‘‘Are you so interested in yonder man-eater that you have 
forgotten your evening meal?” asked a pleas ant-looking old 
gentleman, who came aft and stood beside the clergyman. 
The newcomer was the ship’s surgeon; he wore the regula- 
tion suit of blue with brass buttons and gold braid. 

“I must acknowledge that I am more than fascinated,” 
replied the minister. “Last night I watched him, a ghastly 
thing of phosphorescent light, and he appeared to me more 
like a fiery dragon of Dante’s imagining than a reality; to- 
day he seems like a great beast of prey, untiringly following 
in our wake, his anxious eyes ever turned towards the ship, 
and I can not look upon him without feeling that he is wait- 
ing for a victim.” 

“And so he is,” replied the surgeon, with a sigh; “it is 
strange how these carniverous monsters can scent death. 
Why, Mr. McDonald, I have followed the sea nearly all of 
my life and — although it seems hard to believe, sir, — I have 
seldom seen a shark following a vessel unless the shadow of 
the death angel was hanging over one of its occupants.” 

“Well, doctor, I trust that the present may be an exception 
to that rule,” replied the minister. “I hope there is no one 
aboard who is likely to fill the jaws of yon ugly monster. A 
death on land is sad enough, but at sea its horrors must be 
intensified. That the spirit should be separated from the 
body, away from home and friends, that this earthly clay 
should find no resting place but in a watery grave, is an end 
which few would wish for^ I imagine.” 

There was a look of great earnestness on his face as he 
spoke, for the Keverend Julian McDonald was a man of 
much kindness and mighty sympathy. He was the eldest 
son of an aristocratic New York family; he had been edu- 
cated for the law, but no sooner had he been admitted to the 
bar, than he took a violent dislike to it and, against his 


12 


LIFE. 


mother^s wishes, started doing missionary work in the New 
York slums. He was soon admitted to Episcopal orders and 
although offered the charge of a large and fashionable 
church, he preferred to remain in the small downtown mis- 
sion he had built for the poor, where he was greatly loved by 
all with whom he came in contact, for they knew him to be 
a man who practiced what he preached. And for five years 
he had worked untiringly, day and night, doing good, visit- 
ing the sick, comforting the afflicted, assisting the helpless 
and spreading the gospel of his Master, until he fell ill al- 
most unto death’s door. His physicians had counselled him 
to indulge in absolute rest and had advised him to take a 
trip abroad. Kealizing the necessity of following their in- 
structions, although greatly against his own desire, he had 
spent a year and six months in the Holy Land, in Italy, on 
the Riviera, in France and England, and he was now return- 
ing home with the proud consciousness that the poor were 
looking for him, that they would be glad to welcome him, 
and the thought warmed his heart with happy anticipation. 

It would be hard to describe Julian, for there was in his 
face that underlying spirit that defies description. Perhaps 
it was an unconscious dignity, the visible sign of a lofty 
mind and true nobility, which placed him far above the 
average man of his years and had made him appreciated by 
men older than he and sought out by the wise ones, those 
credited with the brains of the day. 

He was tall and well-built ; well becoming the garb he 
wore. His strong, lean face and straight classic features 
would have been stern but for the kindly eyes which ever 
looked out upon the suffering world with a marvellous sym- 
pathy. In his understanding of all phases of human nature 
he had learned to forgive man’s frailty much. 

He had led the service and preached to the passengers on 
this Sunday morning, choosing for his text the eleventh 
chapter of Matthew, and the twenty-eighth verse, “Come 
unto me all ye that labor and are heavy-laden and I will give 
you rest.” 


LIFE. 


13 


His sermon had been so earnest, so simple and yet so out 
of the ordinary, that all of his hearers had been deeply im- 
pressed and some had been more affected than they had been 
for years; one amongst the number being old Dr. Kimball, 
the ship’s surgeon. 

‘‘I like you, young man,” he said, as he laid his hand upon 
Julian’s shoulder; ^‘you are one of the few preachers I have 
ever heard who are made of the right material. Most of 
them give us words, words, words, which mean nothing, and 
their uninterested hearers yawn and go sound asleep.” 

He laughed heartily and then looking Julian straight in 
the eyes, added, ^‘I’ll warrant, young sir, that no one ever 
went to sleep while you were preaching.” 

can not recall a single instance,” replied the minister, 
smiling. 

“Well, sir, you can receive no greater compliment than 
that,” said Dr. Kimball. “Never sent a man to sleep while 
preaching!” And he laughed again because he could not 
help it. “Why, do you know, I never heard half a dozen ser- 
mons in all my life but that I slept magnificently.” 

The orb of day was now midway between sea and sky; its 
light was brilliant and warm; the whole western firmament 
was filled with fleecy clouds of gold and crimson; the water 
caught the resplendent color of the heavens and its surface 
was now smooth as glass and appeared like a mirror, or a 
shining floor of burnished gold. 

Both men gazed upon the scene in silent meditation. 

The doctor was the first to speak : “How like the setting of 
a human life,” he said, “and I fear, sir, that there is one on 
board who will never see that sun again; his life will be 
snuffed out like a candle, his end will have no such glory 
with it as the setting of the sun.” 

“But God grant that his spirit may go direct to that 
heaven where the visions are far grander than that which 
we now gaze upon,” replied Julian. 

“I fear that it won’t, sir,” said the doctor, “for the man is 
an infidel.” 


14 


LIFE. 


“An infidel and so near his end?’^ questioned Julian, — a 
look of infinite pain and pity overspreading his face. 

“Yes!” sighed Dr. Kimball; after a moment’s silence he 
continued: “and I was thinking, sir, that as you are such a 
good man, you might go below and have a talk with the poor 
fellow. There seems to be a great weight on his mind, and 
his daughter, a pretty, little golden-haired lass, still in her 
teens, is well-nigh distracted with the fear of her father’s 
death.” 

“Poor, suffering souls! And is there no one to sympa- 
thize with them; no one to comfort or advise them in the 
hour of their affliction?” questioned Julian. 

“None, sir!” answered the doctor, with intense feeling, 
“and the poor child comes and stands by my side when I 
minister to her father’s needs and questions me with her 
great blue eyes of that which she is afraid to ask with her 
trembling lips, silently beseeching me to give her hope when 
there is none to give.” 

Scarcely had he finished speaking when a frightened voice 
at his elbow made him turn, quickly. 

Mary St. John, the object of this sympathy, stood beside 

him. 

“Doctor, come quickly!” she gasped. “Papa, — he doesn’t 
speak to me.” 

The tears were streaming down her pale cheeks and she 
caught the doctor’s sleeve and half dragged the old man’s 
slight figure after her down the stairs and into the cabin 
below. 

Used to sights of suffering and despair, as Julian was, he 
was strangely moved by that momentary glimpse of the pale, 
piteous-eyed child, and the thrill of terror in her voice. Fol- 
lowing the two down the steps, he stood quietly just outside 
the sick man’s door, awaiting a summons from the surgeon, 
in case his services should be desired within. 

He had not long to wait. In a few moments, the door 
opened softly; Dr. Kimball came out and Julian read in his 
face that the last hour had come. 


LIFE. 


15 


sudden change! I had thought he might last through 
the night,” whispered the doctor, “but he is sinking rapidly 
and wishes to see you. I have ministered my last to his 
mortal body; go, you, now and comfort his immortal soul;” 
and the old surgeon moved away, unable to say more. 

With a silent prayer to God above that a light might be 
set to guide the feet of this new wanderer through the dark 
night, the young preacher softly entered the tiny cabin whose 
whole atmosphere bespoke the arrival of the strange un- 
welcome guest. 

Poor Michael St. John lay in his berth with closed eyes 
and pallid features and but for his occasional labored breath- 
ing, one might have almost imagined that death had already 
set its seal upon his brow. 

Mary crouched terrified by her father’s side, clinging to 
one of the nerveless hands that had been wont from baby- 
hood to stroke the soft curls that tumbled about her pretty 
head, and her blue eyes were wide and dark with a great 
terror. 

With gentle hands, Julian raised the girl and placed her 
in a chair by her father’s pillow, then kneeling in her place, 
beside the bed, he prayed earnestly: 

“Our Father, which art in heaven ; hallowed be Thy name ; 
Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in 
Heaven.” 

The sick man stirred; then his gaze sought out his daugh- 
ter. 

“Tell her to leave us for a little while,” he whispered to 
Julian, who bent low to hear his words, “I — have something 
to say to you and it is something she must not hear.” 

Julian turned to Mary and conveyed to her her parent’s 
wish. She rose with that unquestioning obedience which 
she had ever given her father, and Julian seeing the pain in 
her eyes at even this small moment’s parting, whispered 
kindly as she passed: “Only for a little, my child; remain 
outside and I promise I will call you very soon.” 

As the door closed upon her, a look of relief passed over 


16 


LIFE. 


her father’s face. “I have such a short time,” he said. 
know that my minutes are numbered, but since you came, I 
have prayed for the first time in ten years; prayed that I 
may be spared a little before I go hence to be no more seen. 
Not for myself do I care to live, but for Mary, my little one! 
She is so fair and good; but she has a face like her mother’s 
— and her mother sinned — and fell! After that I ceased to 
believe in God and in His goodness. I have not prayed nor 
have I taught my little one to pray, and now, as I stand at 
the brink of eternity and in the light of another world, I 
realize my mistake and my soul is filled with fear, not of the 
great hereafter, but for Mary, whom I leave behind. Ah! 
Could I but know that some good person would teach her the 
great lesson that her mother’s sin made me forget. She has 
never left my side for one little hour and now she will be 
left — alone — in that great city of the new world, knowing 
naught of evil and the wolves will come after my pretty 
lamb, and her dazed innocent eyes will not see beneath the 
sheep’s clothing. Such doubts and fears so beset my soul 
that I cannot make my peace with God. and die content.” 

The dying man’s tortured soul shone through his eyes and 
burned into Julian’s, half in terrible questioning, half in 
despairing appeal. 

To Julian it was awful, the sight of this poor soul groping 
darkly in a very hell of doubts and fears in its last hour, 
wrapt in mortal love, forgetful of his own future, as life 
even now, passed out with the tide into the great sea of 
eternity. 

Here, indeed, was a bitter Gethsemane, here indeed the 
need of Calvary! What must he do? The very minutes of 
the man’s life were numbered. He had ceased speaking and 
lay so still that he seemed beyond human understanding. 

Julian started up — he had forgotten Mary. Her father’s 
life was fading, she must be called, and yet — dear God, be 
merciful! She must not see that look in her father’s eyes! 
He wore a small gold cross attached to a black ribbon and 
holding it high in his right hand, he cried, “I swear to you 


LIFE. 


17 


by the sign of the cross,” the sick man’s eyelids flickered 
slightly and Julian prayed that he heard and understood, 
“I promise that your child shall be to me a sacred trust. I 
am a man of God and will gather your daughter into His 
sacred fold; I will guard, protect and honor her as if she 
were my own — and if aught goes wrong with her life, my 
own shall answer for it.” 

A last glow from the western sky centered on the uplifted 
cross and reflected its glory in the dying eyes — a smile of 
ineffaceable peace transfigured the features, and Julian, his 
heart bursting with a wonderful gladness at the change his 
promise had wrought, comforted the parting soul. 

Mary, unable to longer endure the suspense, had slipped 
into the cabin, and stood, wondering at what she saw and 
heard. Julian’s voice rose, full of sweet peace. 

“Hear the words of our Lord Jesus, ^Come unto me all ye 
that are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest. In 
my father’s house are many mansions — ’” 

“Mary !” whispered the dying man. It was the last breath 
and ere its faint tone died away, the prison bars were broken 
and Michael’s soul went out into the night or mayhap, to the 
dawning of a better day, with its guide light of Calvary. 
Mary, kneeling beside the bed, her arms about the rigid body 
of her father, held it fiercely to her as if to defy the monster. 
Death, which had come to rob her of her treasure. 

“Dadda,” she cried, kissing his eyes and lips, “Dadda, I 
am here, ]\tary! Look at me; speak to me, Dadda I Dadda, 
don’t go and leave me all alone; I cannot live without you! 
Ah, dear God ! He does not look at me — ^he does not answer 
me! God!” she shrieked frantically, starting to her feet. 
“His lips are cold ! God ! Thou hast taken him from me — 
and I have no mother! No one in all the world, I am alone 
— alone.” 

********** 


While gentle hands prepared all that remained of poor 


18 


LIFE. 


Michael for his last long sleep, Julian, in the next cabin, 
tried to comfort the distracted child whose charge he had 
accepted. 

Her wild sobbing had worn itself out and she lay face 
downward on the bed, quiet at last, save for an occasional 
heart-breaking moan. Poor Julian wanted to comfort her, 
but so deep was he in sympathy with her sorrow, that his 
attempts at consolation seemed poor and unavailing, so he 
sat silent and quite helpless, gently stroking the soft curls 
and his heart was full of infinite pity. 

^‘God teach me the way to comfort Thy sorrowing child, 
and make me worthy of this trust,” he prayed. 

“He is cold — so cold — and he does not speak to me any 
more,” he heard Mary whisper, unconsciously, to herself. 

“That which is cold and dead, my poor child, is not your 
father,” said Julian gently. “His immortal soul is at rest 
with God. It is only the mortal body which remains be- 
hind.” 

“Ah, but Tis the body of the daddy that I love,” cried the 
child; “and they will bury him down, down, beneath the 
black waters,” she moaned, “and I will never see him again.” 

Julian started. Had the old man meant this when he had 
said he had not taught his child the lesson of Life ? Did she 
really know nothing of Christ and his beautiful teachings, 
with the promise of Resurrection? Holy Father! how dark 
indeed must be her grief, lightened by no knowledge of the 
love of God and the life of the world to come. Small wonder 
at the despair which engulfed and overwhelmed her! 

“Dear God!” he prayed silently, “teach me that I may 
guide her steps aright and lead her in the light of Thy grace, 
to the understanding of Thy love.” 

“Mary,” he said, gently, “your father said something to 
me, before he went to sleep, that you must know. He told 
me that he had never taught you the love of God, and on his 
deathbed it grieved him that he had not, and he asked God’s 
forgiveness for failing in that duty to you, and asked me to 
teach you and comfort you with this great and beautiful 


LIFE. 


19 


truth. Will you listen to me, as your father wished you to 

dor 

“Did Dadda tell you?” she queried. 

“Yes;” said Julian. 

“Then tell me. I am listening,” she answered. 

“You know there is a great God in the heavens above 
you — ” 

“Yes, I know,” she interrupted. “He took from me the 
love and care of my mother and now he has taken my father 
— and left me alone in this great lonely world.” Poor little 
untaught Mary! 

We will not dwell on the painful scenes that followed — 
the long, sad vigil of that first dark night of orphanhood, 
when Mary, deaf to all entreaties of the kind passengers who 
would have comforted her, sat through the long hours by the 
quiet body of her father, jealous of every passing moment 
that brought nearer the dread hour of separation, her warm 
little hands clinging to the stiffening fingers; kissing in 
turn every marble feature, his hair, his lips, his closed eyes, 
his hands, even the tired feet which she had been wont to 
follow since earliest babyhood. 

Julian remained quietly by her side, but she seemed not 
to heed his presence once during the night. He noticed that 
she shuddered and her eyes grew wide with horror at the 
sound of the water lapping against the sides of the vessel, 
and he tried to realize what the thought of it as her father’s 
grave must be to her, when no lamp of hope, lighting the 
path to a future life, was lit within her heart; when the 
commitment of his body to the sea, would only mean to her 
the casting of her treasure into the dark, cold waters, full of 
cruel monsters. He remembered the ugly shark he had 
watched that morning and shuddered at the significance its 
presence now held for him. 

Poor little Mary! 

At last the night was spent; the dawn came and soon the 
Bun shone fair above the sea, changing its blackness to waves 
of dancing light. 


20 


LIFE. 


At ten o’clock, a little company of crew and passengers, 
full of sympathy, assembled on the deck where the burial 
service over the body of poor Michael was to be held. 

Although she had looked upon her father for the last time 
and rained despairing farewell kisses on his dead face, 
Mary still clung to the poor semblance that remained 
to her of the father she had loved so well, now hid- 
den from her sight by its canvas shroud. While Julian read 
the beautiful Episcopal service for the burial of the dead at 
sea and his voice rose on the hushed air, she crouched at the 
head of the bier and seemed to be listening, trying to grasp 
Bomething of the scene that impressed her so profoundly. 

“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord; he 
that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet he shall live: 
and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.” 

The minister’s words stirred her strangely, and all through 
that part of the service she remained quiet. Only when the 
little company rose and sang the hymn Julian had selected, 
“Lead Thou Me On,” did she burst forth into wild, uncon- 
trollable weeping. 

As the “Amen” died away, Julian took her arm and gently 
led her aside and she ceased sobbing as she watched six 
sailors lift their canvas-covered burden to a plank. Then 
the meaning of their action came to her — the terrible 
moment of inevitable separation had come. She reeled and 
kind hands supported her. Dimly, as if a great way off, she 
heard Julian’s voice as he spoke the commitment; 

“We, therefore, commit his body to the deep, looking for 
the general Resurrection in the last day, and the life of the 
world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ.” 

A sudden hush, followed by a faint splash, and the bright 
waves parted for a moment, received their victim and then 
danced on in the sunlight as before. 

The lonely orphan, with one long shuddering moan, sank 
to the deck in blessed oblivion. God in His mercy, had let 
her forget. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE CASTLE ON THE HUDSON. 

‘‘0 best of all the scattered spots that lie, 

In sea or lake — apple of landscape’s eye ! 

How gladly do I drop within thy nest, 

With what a sigh of full, contented rest, 

Joy, my bright waters, joy : your master’s come ! 

Laugh every dimple on thy cheek of home.” 

— Cains Valerius Catullus. 

The great, grey castle of Ballyhoo was typical in every 
way of its owner. 

This strange edifice, as irregular and unsual as the strange 
man who had planned its remarkable architecture, was situ- 
ated far up a slope, along the most frequented part of the 
Hudson and was completely hidden by a dark copse of wood- 
land from the passing boats on the river below. 

It was to this spot that Thornbury Crowe, soldier of for- 
tune in many lands, battle scarred and broken in health, had 
returned to pass the evening of his stormy life and find his 
grave in the land of his fathers — America. 

Almost each individual stone in the great pile was the 
monument of some mood or memory of other days, ’neath 
other skies. 

The entrance was like to some Scottish fortress of historic 
fame, rough hewn and invincible, and the north tower bore 
out this resemblance. The corner-stone of the west wing was 
covered with strange letterings of some Eastern country and 
was one of many which formed the foundation of a mosque- 
like dome, probably a monument of glories achieved on Turk- 
ish battlefields, in the heydey of his wild youth. 

As he had lived, so he would die, ’mid the scenes of war- 
fare which his soul still loved. 


22 


LIFE. 


On the outer wall were graven strange crests, and along 
the interior passage ways and halls were ranged numberless 
swords, sabres, muskets and guns, all the paraphernalia of 
battles fought in twenty different climes and causes; each 
the souvenir of a story chronicled, perhaps, in blood. For 
this soldier had sworn allegiance to many flags and had 
fought alike for each and all. His sword was swifter than 
the swiftest Arab, his eye was true, his aim unerring and his 
mercy small, — save for women and children, to whom he had 
been most tender. 

Countless medals of honor attested the truth of the rumors 
of his prowess, and in the midst of his treasures, in memory, 
he fought again on the battlefields of Turk and Christian. 
Here India’s coral strand and the white walls of the Holy 
City were no longer miles across a boundless sea, and the 
feeble frame would grow to its former stature, the great 
shoulders broaden, the cold gleam of steel shine again in his 
eagle-eyes and the scar upon his massive forehead would 
show a fevered purple as he thought and dreamed of the 
past. 

To the south, a great wing, like some fair chateau of sunny 
France, reared its picturesque tower, tall and white above 
the gray frowning battlements of the north side, and in this 
tower with its rose garden below, the old man lived again his 
youth. 

In the dying glow of a summer day he would steal away, 
and sitting at the open casement, he would close his eyes 
and maybe ’neath the tired lids there grew tender dreams of 
a time in his life when love had filled his days with a won- 
drous happiness. And the perfume of the roses, hanging 
heavy on the still air, brought back through the years a 
memory of lips as subtly sweet, and dancing eyes as bright 
and warm as the sun which had kissed the fragrant petals in 
the garden below. 

In a low bungalow, built after the native Indian style, he 
passed the heated mid-summer days, reading his foreign 
mail, smoking, swearing at intervals between drinks, and 


LIFE. 


23 


frightening well nigh into fits any of the servants who dared 
for any reason to approach him. 

His sister, Mrs. St. Julian, a lady of much fashion and 
little mind, called once, — only once, — and with foolhardy 
daring bearded the lion in his den, — but he swore at her so 
roundly and at such length that she fled, never to return. 

At sight of her beruffled petticoats, gathered up about her 
fat anldes in hasty flight, a gleam of amusement and self- 
shame for a moment shone in the old man’s eyes, but the 
next he growled at “the damned impudence of womankind” 
in general and his sister in particular and after ripping out 
a string of oaths as long and as hot as the Indian sun he 
he liked to believe still beat above his head, he settled down 
with the latest Simla news and a fresh cheroot, to the peace- 
ful enjoyment of his self -sought solitude. 

Eight years ago, on his return for the first time in three 
decades to his native soil, he had vainly tried to take up the 
thread of life where it had been broken ofl so many years 
before, but time had changed every condition of affairs. 
His family, a sister and a brother, had grown from boy and 
girl to old man and woman and he found that he had dropped 
entirely out of their lives. And to his dismay he learned 
that he actually and sincerely disliked the sister whose one- 
time pretty girlishness had been a pleasant memory harbored 
through the years of exile. 

And his brother, Kichard! “What an ass he had made of 
himself; married his cook, or washerwoman, or something 
of the sort, and filled his house with and gave all his means 
to a lot of cattle-commoners, — a mongrel breed with whom 
no gentleman had any business to come in contact.” 

And the two boys, — nephews, — to whom he had intended 
leaving his vast fortune; Julian had turned preacher, and 
preached “Peace” to a restless rabble the Almighty never in- 
tended should be peaceful; Wilfrid, his younger brother, was 
more pleasing to his fancy, — he had fight and fire in him, — 
and his choice of an army life delighted the old soldier, and 


24 


LIFE. 


he secretly determined to make Wilfrid his heir if he turned 
out well and stuck to his profession. 

But this monotony of business, — the eternal, never-slack- 
ing, mad rush for the dollar, — how men waste their lives in 
these latter days, bending over problems in stifling offices, 
hoarding the sweets of life for a future generation to grow 
sickly and useless upon, — it nauseated him and he could not 
bring himself to abide the conditions of existence about him. 
Pining for a solitude in which he could revive the scenes of 
his restless past, he soon found that the commonplace lives 
of his relatives and former friends palled unbearably on him, 
and he was also quick to see that his own unrest was as 
equally irritating and undesirable in the placid routine of 
their lives, so, after a wearisome test of polite society, which 
made an attempt to lionize him at first and ended by re- 
garding him with awe and dislike, he quietly departed from 
the hot beds of modern Sodom, and Ballyhoo was the result 
of this self-elected retirement; and for five years he had 
lived, fairly content, within its gray walls. 

On a summer morning, six weeks previous to the opening 
of this story, a strange change began to take place in Colonel 
Thornbury Crowe. The lascar, sunning himself outside the 
bungalow, heard a mighty oath from within. In a flash, he 
was on his feet, standing at attention! The thunder had 
sounded and the storm would soon follow, he knew. But, to 
his astonishment, all was silent. For half an hour, it re- 
mained so, and the lascar again sunned himself and dozed. 
Then his name was called and when he entered he found his 
master strangely pale and quiet. 

‘‘You are ill, master!” he exclaimed, fearfully, for he loved, 
like some great faithful dog, the strange, brave man who he 
had served for a score of years. 

But the Colonel vouchsafed no answer; with his head 
drooping till his chin rested on his broad chest, he seemed 
lost in deep thought. Then he suddenly spoke: “Kama, you 
remember France?” 

The servant uttered an assent. 


LIFE. 


25 


“And you remember a certain beautiful lady whom I met, 
in the chateau like that wing yonder? The lady of the rose 
garden, whom we daily visited, Kama?” 

The lascar remembered only too well! The garden, the 
star-eyed girl, and a duel where blood enough to crimson 
every rose in the lady’s garden, had been spilled. 

“You remember, Rama, we met the girl, grown to woman- 
hood, in the Indian bungalow at Simla, — with her English 
husband — ” 

Rama remembered that also and the night that followed, 
when, like some wild beast for the first time powerless be- 
hind iron bars of captivity, his master had been so terrible, 
that even he, Rama, had feared the sight of him; he also 
remembered how later, as the stars faded before the well- 
known Subhi-Kasib of the East, he had crept softly, fear- 
fully, to the then quiet room beyond, to find his master at 
last exhausted, fallen asleep, and the look upon his master’s 
unconscious face in the cold light of the gray dawn had 
made him wonder greatly as to the real meaning of the thing 
mankind called “love!” 

And Rama could have gone on remembering innumerable 
things of the days that followed, things which his master 
did not call to mind; forbidden sweets that love will steal, — 
sweets that wrought no vital harm, for his master was a man 
of honor, and the little French girl — well, the little French 
girl was good 

The Colonel interrupted his train of thoughts. 

“Some time afterwards, Rama, the lady had a little daugh- 
ter. This letter is a last request penned by the lady’s fin- 
gers.” The hand holding the missive trembled slightly, and 
the old man paused for one moment as though not trusting 
himself to speak. Then rising and averting his face to hide 
a falling tear, he continued: 

“And that little daughter, Rama, is coming here to me !” 


CHAPTEK IV. 


THE GHOST OF A LOVE OP THE PAST. 

“As nobly brave as God ere fashioned man, 

A goodly youth to look upon.” 

****>»* 

“A mouth for mastery and manful work ; 

A certain brooding sweetness in the eyes ; 

A brow the harbour of fair thought, the hair 
Saxon in hue.” 

^‘And do you mean to tell me that you really refuse to put 
your name on my list?” 

“I do, sir; most emphatically.” 

The speakers were Col. Thornbury Crowe and his brother, 
Kichard ; they were sitting on the lawn in front of the castle 
and from all appearances the air, even in that breeze-cooled 
spot, was too warm for both of them. 

^^What reason have you to otfer for such monstrous ” 

blustered Richard, red of face and loud of tongue. 

“None at all, sir; I never reason with fools!” replied his 
brother, calmly. 

“You are most discourteous in your language, brother,” 
growled Richard. 

“I would not hear another word of it, if I were you, sir,” 
suggested the Colonel. 

“And so you intend spending the rest of your life within 
these four walls, your gates closed to your family and 
friends ?” 

The Colonel looked at him meaningly. 

“My dogs are excellent company when I find myself dull,” 
he said. 

“So?” replied Richard, not in the least abashed. “You 
will continue to hoard your wealth like a wretched miser, 
refusing these small charities and calling down upon your 
head the condemnation of every one.” 


LIFE. 


27 


my condemners can show where I am one jot or tittle 
in their debt,” said the Colonel, “I will make good their 
claim. What an infernal ass you make of yourself, Rich- 
ard ! And to think that you are my brother and once upon a 
time could drink as well and shoot as straight as any, and en- 
joy life with the best of them. And now, because you see fit 
to turn psalm singer in your old age, you come snivelling 
about with your tales of poverty and would have me turn 
fool like yourself, and because my days on this earth are well 
nigh spent, propitiate the Almighty God in the next world 
by flinging gold to grovelling hypocrites in this! Bah! I 
have no patience with, nor peace for such rot!” 

“But, brother ” 

“Stop, sir; not a word. I have spent the strong, good 
years of my life fighting for brave causes, side by side with, 
or leading brave men, and never feared that any hour might 
be my last, and now I am an old man, and because I have 
chosen to spend my remaining years within the solitudes of 
my own gates, surrounded by what pleasures or fancies I 
choose, I must needs be constantly bedevilled by fools and 
sycophants, who come in the name of charity, society, poli- 
tics, and a dozen other such things, as excuse for their pry- 
ing curiosity, to disturb the peace of a gentleman^s last days ; 
and I’ll be damned if I’ll have it, sir! I’ll be damned if I 
will!” 

“You are insulting past all endurance!” exclaimed Rich- 
ard, hotly. 

“Then do not endure another moment, sir!” remarked the 
Colonel. “Allow me the pleasure of showing you the path 
to the nearest gate, and to wish you a very good morning!” 

“Rama !” to the servant, who always followed within a few 
feet of his master, “conduct the gentleman through the 
north portal and on your return make fast the gate from the 
inner side. Good day, brother. Should you, at any future 
time, see fit to call upon me, as one gentleman upon another, 
with other conversation and purpose than that of emptying 
my pockets, I shall take pleasure in making you welcome.” 


28 


LIFE. 


As the now finally aroused Kichard, grown choleric with 
rage, strode away with what dignity his extreme portliness 
of form permitted, Colonel Crowe chuckled to himself. 

‘That wasn’t so bad. What a damned poor sort he is ! I 
suppose that comes from association with his washerwoman 
wife. What a fine day has been wasted with unpleasant 
argument; and this day, of all others, to be disturbed! It is 
still four hours to sundown. I will go and see if the south 
wing is just as she would like it to be. Rama !” to the lascar 
who had returned to his post. “The room is just as you re- 
member it? The spinet, the cabinet, the flower bowls?” 

“Yes, Sahib.” 

There was something almost pathetic in the nervous anx- 
iety of the blufi old soldier’s effort to make happy the home- 
coming of this small orphan, who was coming into his life to 
look up to him, through the vista of long years, with her 
mother’s eyes, and alas ! destined, as was that mother, to love 
and lose, and loving, — die I 

Little did the old man dream that his iron hand, which had 
held the mother’s heart in its hollow, would, by the design of 
a cruel fate, crush from the little daughter all the sweet frag- 
rance of her fair young life, ere it should blossom into per- 
fect womanhood. 

Poor old soldier ! With his heart of mail, grown strangely 
tender in the after-glow of a light o’ love which had been 
denied his youth ! 

The lascar watched his master anxiously as he pottered 
about like a nervous woman; noticing that his big hand 
trembled ever so slightly as it arranged a bowl of roses be- 
neath the great portrait of the lady, which graced the walls 
of the chateau. The lascar did not like these changes in his 
master; it was too much like being good, and the poor slave 
feared this Christian weakness might herald the death of his 
beloved lord; he longed to hear him swear, — a round of those 
mighty hell-savored oaths would be sweetest music to his 
ears. The Colonel had seated himself at the open window, 
through which was wafted the rose-laden air, his eyes fixed 


LIFE. 


29 


on the distant horizon filled with that new peace which drove 
the lascar mad. He must do something to break this awful 
stillness which so menaced his master’s life. He might be 
killed for it, — he was sure to get a blasting that would re- 
main green in his memory for many months, perhaps for- 
ever, but that was a small consideration. He must awaken 
some of the old-time spirit of the man by the window. He 
looked about him for an object of campaign and his eyes 
lighted on the portrait beneath which the Colonel had ar- 
ranged the great jardiniere of crimson flowers. Rama glided 
noiselessly across the room. “It is a beautiful face, master,” 
he said, in Hindoostan. 

“The most beautiful God ever made, Rama!” said the old 
man, softly. 

“And it is as like to the lady as she herself,” continued the 
lascar, “but those French mademoiselles, master, they say 
that they are all as false as the Subhikazib; and that those 
yellow eyes lie to the men that love them, — to one Sahib to- 
day, — another Sahib to-morrow, and mayhap. Sahib, the little 
Angela, who wore red roses in her hair, ” 

He stopped to look at his master and the black stubble of 
the shorn crop beneath his native turban rose en masse. 

The Colonel, at first too dumbfounded to move, had risen 
to his feet, his tall form quivering with rage, his face twitch- 
ing, his mouth foaming: “Go!” he thundered, pointing to the 
door, his towering stature drawn up to its full height, his 
hawk eyes shining like two blue-grey glints of steel; “Go! 
dog, and never venture into my sight again or I will hill 
you !” 

The “dog” crouched, but his love was greater than his 
fear. 

“Master ! Sahib !” he implored, his dark face turned ashen, 
his eyes starting from their sockets. Then came the torrent 
for which he had dared so much. His master’s huge form 
quivered and he sank exhausted into the chair from which 
he had risen. “Fool!” he panted, “white-livered hound! 


30 


LIFE. 


Damnation to your heathen soul! Out of my sight! To 
hell with you ! Miserable dog !” 

Rama, having knowledge of his master, betook himself out 
of the chateau, knowing it to be quite useless to remain, the 
immediate future holding small hope of forgiveness for him. 
He sped away to the bungalow and sat on his mat just out- 
side the entrance, nursing his grief. He had anticipated 
curses and, very likely, blows — but not this. And he rocked 
back and forth, moaning aloud in his native fashion of 
lamentation. 

In a few moments, his master came slowly around the turn 
of the path leading from the rose garden. He walked slowly 
and his face was pale, spent with the rage just passed. At 
sight of his weakness, Rama’s faithful heart suffered a 
thousand pangs. He salaamed to the ground, but the Colonel 
did not even glance at the figure lying in the dust at his 
feet as he passed on into the bungalow. An hour went by 
during which the lascar never took his eyes from the open 
door through which his master had entered and so absorbed 
was he that he did not hear the approaching steps of the 
maid who came to announce a visitor, and her voice at his 
side so startled him, that he sprang to his feet, affrighted. 
The saucy Flemish girl laughed. “Tell the master that a 
visitor, — a soldier, — who says that he is his nephew, is strol- 
ling about the front terrace and asks to see him.” 

Rama’s head drooped. “I may not speak to the Sahib!” 
he answered. 

The girl arched her black eyebrows in surprise. “Indeed ?” 
she said. 

The Colonel had heard her announcement and had risen, 
preparatory to joining his nephew in the grounds, but the 
lascar’s voice stopped him; he was curious to hear what ex- 
planation or excuse the slave would offer in reply to the 
maid’s questioning. Cool reflection during the past hour had 
already raised the doubt in his mind as to any intentional 
wrong on Rama’s part. 

The Flemish maid, a saucy baggage of Mrs. St. Julian’s 


LIFE. 


31 


selection, who had been imported for the express purpose of 
attending the coming mistress of the castle, was consumed 
with curiosity. “Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed. “And how is 
that, Monsieur?” 

“I have made offence that may not be forgotten,” ans- 
wered the lascar, sadly. 

“Mon pauvre Monsieur Kama !” cooed the girl, eyeing him 
sympathetically. She was eager for an account of the affair 
and saw that the best chance of receiving satisfaction lay in 
skillfully worming it out of the honest fellow, and she was 
not far wrong. The wretched slave, feeling for the first time 
the loneliness of the stranger in a strange land, found a grain 
of comfort in the thought of unburdening his heart and was 
soon led into revealing all his fears for his master, the failure 
of his plan, and his present despair. He told it brokenly, 
and the maid, whose eyes, long before the finish had lost 
their mournful roundness and danced up and down in her 
rosy face like two black devils, shrieked with laughter at the 
lascar^s story. 

The Colonel, standing just inside the door, heard the piti- 
ful confession, but unlike the French maid, he saw nothing 
in it to laugh at; it is true, he smiled once, — a rare smile, 
whose wonderful sweetness he had never bent on any save 
one — her whose pictured likeness hung in the south wing 
above the rose garden of the chateau. 

The maid, still screaming with laughter, hurried away, 
leaving the lascar staring after her, with a strange pain in 
his great dog-like eyes. His master, watching from the door- 
way, saw, and understood the dumb pathos of it; he was 
touched, more than he had ever been in all his life before. 
“Rama!” he said — the lascar quivered from head to foot — 
“Damn your honest, heathen soul! Follow me to the front 
terrace.” 

And Rama, his face radiant with a great joy, obeyed. 
********** 

While the above events were taking place in the rear of the 
castle grounds, a young man stood idly leaning against a 


32 


LIFE. 


buttress of the white marble portico, overlooking the sloping 
terrace at the front of the mansion. 

As he puffed lazily at a fragrant Havana, his glance 
wandered over the vast estate in pleased surprise, as he made 
a rough estimate as to its possible value. 

‘‘By Jove!’’ he exclaimed to himself, “I musn’t make any 
mistake in handling the old fellow. This is something 
worth having.” 

“Ah! How do you do, sir? Glad to see you!” shaking 
hands heartily with the Colonel, who joined him at this 
juncture. “Great place you’ve got here. Never saw anything 
just like it. Savors of all sorts of interesting things. Heard 
rumors of it, but never pictured anything half so remark- 
able, — and swell. Makes modern architecture look as tame 
as a tabby cat beside a Bengal tiger!” He laughed a genu- 
ine, pleasant laugh that did one good to hear. His uncle 
smiled in reply, secretly pleased at this first praise meted his 
hobby. His brother, Richard, had designated it “a heathen 
pile” and his sister, Mrs. St. Julian, “a fitting asylum for the 
lunatic who built it!” He had expressed himself as not 
“caring a damn” for either opinion; nevertheless, his 
nephew’s evident admiration delighted him. 

“It is warm inside. Shall we walk over the grounds?” 
asked the Colonel. 

“Suits me exactly, sir. Just what I would have sug- 
gested,” replied Wilfrid. 

“Good! Then we will take the path around to the north 
tower. From its top, you can have a fine view of the entire 
estate and the country round about. You might like to have 
a look at it.” 

Wilfrid assured him that it would afford him the greatest 
pleasure in the world; and the two strolled away in the di- 
rection of the grey north tower. 

The old man cast side glances of approval at the young 
fellow beside him, who swung along at an easy, graceful gait, 
his well-built, soldierly figure set off to advantage by the 
light summer flannels he wore. 


LIFE. 


33 


“When do your graduation exercises take place V’ asked the 
Colonel. “It must be pretty near to the time.” 

“It is, sir,” replied Wilfrid, “and that is exactly what 
brought me here, to-day. Can you guess what I am going 
to ask you to do ?” 

“Haven’t the least idea,” returned his uncle. 

“Well, I’ll tell you, sir. Perhaps you’ll think I’m an aw- 
fully conceited kind of a fellow to suppose that you would 
be interested enough to bother about it at all, — ” flushing 
slightly, “but I, somehow, have the idea, that if you would 
come to West Point on that day, I’d feel whole car loads 
better, and ten times more a soldier at the end of the exer- 
cises. I don’t suppose you’d care to go, of course, and I’ve 
no right to ask you to put yourself out, but ever since I was 
a little chap, I’ve had the fancy to pattern my career after 
your own; and seeing you there at my initiation, would be 
making the first step in the right direction.” 

There was nothing much in what he said, but the way in 
which he said it ! the eager, half deprecating manner accom- 
panying the disjointed sentences, the smile with which he 
finished his request! Truly, the young fellow seemed the 
embodiment of all the lovable traits of youth and manhood. 
And the stern, battle-scarred warrior followed the rest of 
man and woman-kind by surrendering unconditionally to its 
fascination. 

“My boy,” he cried, extending his iron hand and gripping 
Wilfrid’s hard, “I never had a son; — I never felt the desire 
for one ’till now, — but you have shown me my need, — that 
best thing in life, — which I have missed!” 

Blackguard as Wilfrid was, that little spark of the God 
who made us which is in even the worst, now came to the 
front. Maybe, it was the youth in him which was touched. 
He pressed hard the hand that held his own and the light 
that flashed from his young grey eyes into his uncle’s old 
ones, was one of genuine sympathy. 

The impulse of good died almost as soon as it was born, 
but it had lived long enough, in that fleeting moment when 
2 


34 


LIFE. 


their glances met, to work a mighty future ruin. 

“Then you will come?” questioned the young man, with 
flattering persistence. 

“With all my heart, my son,” returned the Colonel, heart- 
ily. Wilfrid caught his hand again and pressed it grate- 
fully. 

“Indeed, sir, I donT know of any English strong enough 
to express my thanks. It is jolly good of you; more than it 
really ever occurred to me to hope for. It makes a fellow 
feel a whole lot to the good when some one who has come to 
the end of life with a record of success, gives him a lift of 
interest and advice on his starting out.” 

The Colonel smiled, well pleased at this naive flattery. 
Wilfrid had spoken quite seriously, as though his fine spirits 
had fled in contemplation of the great future he referred to. 
His uncle cast another side-glance at him and smiled again, 
approvingly. The boyish brightness had been most attrac- 
tive, but this serious mood, he liked even better. How strong 
and full of character his every feature, the square jaws, the 
firm, almost hard mouth and chin, the well-shaped nose, ear- 
nest eyes and fine forehead beneath the parted waves of 
thick, fair hair. 

“Yes, he is a born soldier!” thought the old warrior, and 
as he expressed it to Mrs. St. Julian afterwards, “God 
Almighty never set a head like that on shoulders likfe those, 
to bend over problems in an office.” 

By this time, they had reached the north tower and, not 
willing to be outdone by younger limbs, and anxious to hear 
what Wilfrid had to say regarding his strange estate, the old 
Colonel followed his nephew up the winding stairs, puffing 
mightily before he reached the top. Wilfrid smiled at the 
old fellow’s pluck, and, as much as it was in him to admire 
any one but himself, his heart warmed towards this strange 
uncle, whom all his relatives disliked. 

It was a particularly auspicious time to view the estate, 
for the setting sun transformed the gilded dome of the 


LIFE. 


85 


mosque into a mass of molten gold, and the rose garden shone 
a crimson Eden in its rays. 

^‘By Jove!” ejaculated Wilfrid, in tribute to the beauty of 
the scene. 

‘‘Great, isn’t it?” asked his uncle. 

“Greatest I ever saw,” replied his nephew. “What’s that 
red plot to the south, at the foot of that white tower ? The 
sun dazzles my eyes so that I cannot distinguish very well.” 

“Just a flower garden and a small French chateau, like one 
I used to visit on the other side; — a mere fancy of mine,” 
replied the Colonel, evasively. To no one but Kama could 
the old man speak of this passage of his life, this little hour 
of love ; to no one but Rama, who had looked on at its birth, 
its short, life, and its bitter death; Rama, who had been 
faithful and sympathetic, ever, and who was destined at this 
moment to announce its resurrection. 

“The evening boat is in. Sahib!” exclaimed the slave, 
straining his black eyes towards the east. 

The Colonel started violently, and all at once, he seemed 
ill. He grew pale and tottered as though he would fall. 

“What is it? What did you say to him?” demanded Wil- 
frid in alarm, as he sprang to his uncle’s side, to prevent his 
falling. 

“The Sahib knows,” growled the lascar, his eyes flashing 
fire at Wilfrid. 

“It is nothing,” said the Colonel, recovering himself, angry 
at his display of weakness before the young man. “I am 
growing to be a childish old fool; that is all,” laughing 
shortly. “Come, we must get round to the south gate, with 
all haste,” he added, and he led the way down the winding 
stairs. 

“What does this mean? What is the trouble?” asked Wil- 
frid in amazement, as, breathless, the three reached the bot- 
tom, and the Colonel, still in great haste, continued leading 
the way southward, across the park. 

The old man checked his steps. “Strange I should have 
forgotten to mention it to you,” he said nervously, trying to 


36 


LIFE. 


conceal his excitement, “I have a little charge, — my ward — 
who comes to-day, all the way from India. I knew her 
mother in the old days.” 

^^Well, and what about it?” queried the nephew. 

^‘Nothing remarkable,” answered his uncle, “except that 
she comes by the evening boat and will make her home with 
me.” 

“Oh, I see,” said Wilfrid, turning aside so that the old 
man could not see his chagrin. What he “saw” was not a 
pleasant outlook, for he at once drew his own conclusions 
about “the mother in the old days,” and foresaw the daugh- 
ter working herself into his uncle’s affection and estates, and 
he, himself, left out in the cold. In a moment he recovered 
himself, but not before the lascar had read his thoughts. 

“I’ll not give up this early in the game,” he decided; “I’ll 
run a race for the half of the old man’s fortune, anyway.” 

“Her coming will be great for you, sir,” he exclaimed, 
frankly, “just the thing to keep you young, and your socks 
mended,” he added, laughing. “A woman’s a great thing 
about the house. I’m a great believer in the gentle sex, you 
know. Nothing like them, sometimes.” 

“I’m glad you think it is a good idea,” replied his uncle, 
“but from what the letter said, the little one is quite a child 
as yet; fifteen years of age, I think, or thereabouts, and 
young for her age at that; which, however, is all the better 
for me, as an older girl would soon tire of her old guardian 
and leave him for a younger one.” 

Even as he spoke, the bell clanged and the great gate 
swung back to admit the object of their conversation. 

Such a queer little figure, in her black mourning clothes, 
her small head shorn quite close of all its curls, the arms and 
legs wasted to a skeleton thinness from the long siege of the 
terrible bungalow fever, which had so recently held her its 
victim of a long sige of illness and had made her an orphan. 

“What a little scarecrow!” exclaimed Wilfrid to himself, 
watching her unsteady steps as she came up the path to meet 
his uncle, clinging tightly to her “ayah’s” hand. 


LIFE. 


37 


To tell the truth, the old man received something of a 
shock also. Her mother had been so beautiful, and he had 
naturally pictured to himself the likeness he would find in 
her child; manlike, neither he, nor Wilfrid, thought of mak- 
ing excuses for the ravages of a long and terrible illness. 
The next moment, the old soldier inwardly scored himself 
roundly for his thoughts. What mattered it how the child 
fared for looks? His momentary shock had been disloyalty 
to her mother. Judging from her letter, the mother had 
greatly loved her little daughter, and the old soldier had 
greatly loved that mother. He had never known any chil- 
dren and consequently he had no settled ideas as to how they 
should be dealt with. He found himself growing quite 
nervously excited as the little black-robed figure drew near. 
He went forward to meet her, smiling uneasily; and the 
great hand in which the child placed her tiny one, was not 
quite steady. 

am glad to see you, my child,” he said with all the 
warmth he could summon, for, at her touch, he was shaking 
as with ague. 

Angela raised her eyes to his. ‘‘Thank you,” she said. A 
shock of delight thrilled the old soldier, for she looked at 
him with her mother’s eyes, and spoke to him with her 
mother’s voice. 

There was no longer doubt or hesitancy in the old soldier’s 
welcome. “My little one, my Angela I” he cried, catching 
the child to him and holding her against his breast, beneath 
which his heart was throbbing wildly. The past twenty 
years were as but one day! In his mad fancy, he held in 
his arms the Angela of the past, his lips kissing the small 
stubbled head, caressed the fragrant curls of long ago. This 
man, — great in all things, — must surely have been great in- 
deed in love. 


CHAPTEK V. 


GRADUATION DAY AT WEST POINT. 

“A Illy blew by a woodland road 
Where a knight came riding by, 

In the gath’ring he crushed its beauty sweet, 

And flung It aside — to die.” 

It was Graduation Day at West Point. 

The morning exercises creditably over with, the great 
crowds, which are always on hand for this event, swarmed in 
groups — some large, some small — about the historic grounds. 

The day was beautiful, and its gladness seemed to have 
found reflection in every face. Every one smiled and seemed 
happy. Proud parents glowed, fond friends and relatives 
beamed satisfaction, sweethearts radiated and the objects of 
their adoration smiled back at them, bursting with joy and 
importance. 

Wilfrid had carried off the first honors, and, hence, was 
the centre of attraction. His fine record had won him a suc- 
cession of hearty congratulations from his' instructors and 
his magnetic personality, which had made him a favorite 
with the greater number of his classmates, was irresistible 
to-day, in the glow of success. 

Colonel Thornbury Crowe, true to his promise, had for 
once deserted his castle and betaken himself by special boat, 
up the river, to witness his nephew’s triumph. He now 
formed one of the group about Wilfrid, eyeing him proudly. 

As soon as Wilfrid saw him, he left the others and held 
out his hand to the old soldier, who caught it and wrung 
it hard. 

^^There,” said the young fellow, ^‘now I feel better. Fve 
been wanting to shake you by the hand the worst way in the 
world, ever since Pve been a full-fledged soldier.” And he 


LIFE. 


39 


smiled upon his uncle in his winning way with such genuine 
affection and admiration that the old soldier, in the light of 
it, felt himself, suddenly a combination of Napoleon, Wel- 
lington, Washington and Lee. 

In that smile lay Wilfrid’s secret charm. Surely it was 
the devil’s masterpiece of cunning art. Like charity in oth- 
ers, in him it covered a multitude of sins. It was an open 
catalogue of good qualities. It was anything the occasion 
demanded, and always the best of its kind, at that. In 
turns, it was flattering, lovable, gentle, sympathetic, or nobly 
brave, and the charm of each quality lay in its genuineness. 
The look he now bent upon the Colonel was of such frank 
admiration, that the old soldier, filled with delight, more 
than ever determined to make this young man’s life well 
worth the living. He had been doing a deal of thinking 
and planning ever since the eventful day of Wilfrid’s first 
visit to the castle and the arrival of Angela. Within the 
short space of two weeks, the little girl had wound herself 
very tightly around the old man’s heart. And he, with 
love’s eyes, seeing beneath the homely ravages of illness and 
climate, detected the promise of that beauty which had been 
her mother’s dowry, and he found the days altogether too 
short in which to build air-castles in which she was in- 
variably installed as queen. That which pleased him best 
was a vision of the rose garden in years to come, where Wil- 
frid, with Angela grown beautiful like her mother, should 
walk, hand in hand on a summer’s eve, the proud owners of 
Ballyhoo and of all his property. 

He was always quiet nowadays, and smiled so often to 
himself at the pictures he drew, that the poor lascar’s heart 
was sore afraid that the end of all things was nigh; but he 
dared not offend again, so he only hovered near his master, 
watching him like the great faithful dog he was. 

Of all the merry company at West Point, to-day, his was, 
perhaps, the only face that did not wear a smile. 

Mrs. St. Julian, gorgeous in a pale blue creation, was 
supremely happy. Wilfrid had ever been her hobby, and 


40 


LIPE. 


this brilliant finish of her favorite, contrasting with his 
brother’s failure (as his mother was wont to consider the 
young minister’s lowly calling), was the proudest feather in 
her cap for many years, and there was something real be- 
hind the smirk with which she greeted the many who came 
forward to shake hands with the young soldier and con- 
gratulate the mother. Her pride and pleasure were genuine, 
and nothing but the presence of her brother Richard and his 
plebian wife marred the day. All the morning she had been 
busy keeping out of the way of the latter, while she, poor 
soul, in good-natured ignorance of the state of affairs, per- 
sistently followed her, talking volubly of the greatness of 
‘‘our boy” whenever sufficient crowd gathered about them to 
make worth while the announcement. 

At this moment, her voice rose loud above the hum of 
many: “Wilfrid, ma par excellence!” she exclaimed, smack- 
ing him soundly, “we are all proud of you to-day. You 
were always a piece de resistance from the time you were a 
wee baby, and rode straddle-legged upon your Uncle Rich- 
ard’s back. I said then, ‘if he goes through life with the 
exterpation of all vices, he will be a great man, someday;’ 
and you are!” she finished triumphantly, with hands on 
hips, surveying him, with beaming pride. Wilfrid was as 
intensely annoyed as his lady-mother, who stood aside, biting 
her thin lips with vexation. But there was nothing for the 
young man to do; to repel the honest old soul would show 
him up in the light of a cad and he knew that he must make 
the best of the situation; so, instead of losing a point, he 
gained one (as was ever the case when he chose), by smiling 
in his frankest, brightest way on the delighted old woman. 
“Nonsense, aunty,” he laughed, “I’m not great in any way 
to-day, except in having been honored with a kiss from the 
best-looking woman on the grounds!” And he swept her a 
gallant bow. 

Thus it was, that he always turned to advantage every 
situation, gliding gracefully out of awkward places with 
ready tact, or, by reason of his personality, making himself 


LIFE. 


41 


the centre of every gathering in which he chanced to 
affiliate. 

^^Good boy!’’ was the silent comment of the Colonel. 

^^How clever !” murmured his mother, much relieved. 

“What a d — fine chap!” thought his several class chums, 
who were in the group about him. 

“What an angel !” flashed from the brown, blue, black and 
grey eyes of the many pretty white-robed girls who had seen 
and heard. 

Wilfrid read the party sentiments in a glance and con- 
gratulated himself that he hadn’t done half badly, after all. 

A few minutes more of chatter and Wilfrid was glad to 
break away from the arms of his adoring relatives. He was 
growing restless for a tete-a-tete under one of the shady 
trees with some of the pretty girls. There were lots of 
stunning-looking visitors, and there was his commanding 
officer’s blue-eyed daughter, smiling at him from across the 
way. With a graceful bow to the ladies, and a nod to the 
fellows, he withdrew from their midst and joined the owner 
of the turquoise eyes. 

“How do you do. Miss Marjory? I have been looking for 
you all the day. I somehow flattered myself that you would 
be good enough to give me an encouraging word or so, before 

the exercises, and ” with a little, embarrassed laugh, “I 

was more disappointed than you can think; because — well, I 
don’t know when I’ve wanted anything quite so badly.” 

The girl’s face flushed to the roots of her pretty hair, and 
she looked down that Wilfrid might not see in her eyes, that 
which made her heart beat so quickly beneath the white com- 
mencement gown. 

“I didn’t know,” she stammered, “or I would have come — 
of course — as it was — I was thinking of you all night long, 
and praying that you would win out, first!” 

“Ah! That was good of you; and now, I know who sent 
the lilies,” said Wilfrid, softly. (He had known all along.) 

“I had thought you would have known, at once,” ans- 


42 


LIFE. 


wered the girl; there was a little quiver of disappointment 
in her voice. 

‘^How could I have dared to hope for such a favor, when 
you have so many friends, and I know myself to be the least 
among them. Miss Marjory,’^ returned the young fellow. 

“You are right, lieutenant; it was very silly of me to sup- 
pose that you could know, that the foolish fancy which made 
me select the lilies would ever occur to you. Girls are very 
foolish, anyway,” she admitted bravely, after a short pause, 
looking up into his face with a pitiful little smile which 
belied the unconscious pain in her blue eyes. 

“What an idiot I was!” cried Wilfrid. “Of course, I 
know, now!” 

“Too late!” answered the girl, simply. 

She was a proud little thing, but her love for the time had 
overcome her pride. The pain of his going had gnawed at 
her heart for weeks. For two years they had been friends 
and she felt herself in duty bound to send him a bouquet 
of flowers in honor of his graduation. What should they 
be? She remembered one night, last summer, she had been 
bridesmaid at the wedding of her best girl chum, at the 
Academy Chapel. It had been very warm, and she had 
walked bare-headed across the moonlit campus, in her white 
mull gown, her arms full of the long-stemmed lilies, Wilfrid 
had met her face to face, and his eyes had paid frank homage 
to the beauty of the picture she made. 

“You are like some fair, sweet lily yourself,” he had told 
her, and she had been happier than ever before in all her life. 

So, in the selection of the farewell bouquet, there had been 
an unacknowledged, almost unconscious, hope in her heart, 
that if that summer night and the two years of friendship 
had meant anything to him, that he would read and under- 
stand the message of the flowers. 

He had understood; but he did not care to own it. Any 
affair would be most inconvenient, just now. The pain in 
the girTs blue eyes he also understood. 

He would have liked to have taken the little white-clad 


LIEE. 


43 


figure in his arms and comforted her, caressing the fair 
curls which had always been half a temptation to him, — not 
because he cared anything for her pain or love, — but just be- 
cause she was a pretty, charming girl, and he was a man. 
But he couldn’t afford to gratify his inclination, just now; 
it was necessary that he be most careful not to compromise 
himself in any way. He liked little Miss Marjory, as he 
liked all the other beautiful girls he knew — perhaps he liked 
her just a wee bit better, but he had no idea of tying himself 
down to any one. A life of freedom held too much charm 
for him at present; ten, fifteen, or even twenty years hence, 
perhaps, he might think about such a thing, but not before. 

Marjory had seated herself on a root of the great tree near 
which they had been standing and was looking out across the 
purple hills with wistful eyes. She was so fair and sweet 
that Wilfrid had hard work to stick to his resolution to hold 
himself in hand. As it was, he moved away a bit and folded 
his arms tightly across his chest to keep them out of mis- 
chief. 

^^Well,” he said, ‘‘1 guess I’ll have to say good-bye; I re- 
turn to New York with mother to-night, you know, and 
there are a good many leave-takings to be gone through with, 
and there’s not much time left.” 

“I suppose not,” answered the girl, faintly, holding out her 
little hand to him; ^%ood-bye, lieutenant.” 

‘‘Surely, Miss Marjory, you are not going to send me off 
to the front without a good wish and a God-speed?” said 
Wilfrid. 

“To the front ?” she echoed. 

“Yes; you know I’ve been assigned to the Second, and we 
sail for Cuba the last of the week.” 

“I am so sorry.” Her voice was very low; and she was 
looking away across the hills again and he could not see her 
eyes. “I suppose that isn’t quite what you expected to hear 
from a soldier’s daughter,” she went on presently, “but no 
matter how brave they would seem, the women who wait and 
watch — alone — at home, find it very hard — ^I think.” 


44 


LIFE. 


In spite of himself, Wilfrid was touched. 

“Miss Marjory,” he cried involuntarily — and the feeling 
in his words was not assumed — “you are the sweetest woman 
I have ever known, and the fellow you would wait for is the 
luckiest man in the world.” 

For one fleeting moment her face grew radiant, then the 
light died out, leaving it white and cold. 

“Good-bye — and God bless you,” she said and smiled up at 
him bravely. But the smile was sadder than tears. 

Wilfrid returned to the family group to find the Colonel 
just setting out to look for him to say good-bye. 

“You don^t mean to say that you’re going to leave us al- 
ready!” exclaimed the young man, with a look of flattering 
dismay. “Why, that will never do. I haven’t shown you 
the half of all I wanted you to see. Come, come ; you musn’t 
think of going for an hour yet.” 

“Colonel Welden has very kindly escorted me over the 
post,” replied his uncle, “and as I am not so young as I once 
was, I feel rather tired.” 

“I am sorry that I had to be away from you for so long,” 
said Wilfrid, “but the truth of the matter is, I’ve been say- 
ing some good-byes that were rather hard on me, and they 
detained me longer than I thought.” 

“You do look rather done up,” replied the Colonel, eyeing 
him closely. “Who is this you’ve been taking leave of that 
upsets you so? A sweetheart? Eh?” 

“Oh, no!” laughed Wilfrid, evasively. “Not that bad.” 

“I am glad to hear you say so,” said his uncle in a tone of 
such earnest relief that it surprised Wilfrid. 

“Now, what in the devil,” thought he, “could it matter to 
him whether I had a dozen love affairs or not?” 

His question was to have a strange answer to his silent 
question sooner than he, or the Colonel himself, dreamed of. 

“Well, I must be going,” said his uncle, again. “You sail 
for Quba the end of the week, I hear; in the meantime, I 
suppose you will be your own master?” 


LIFE. 


45 


“Yes, sir; practically. I will spend the time in New 
York with mother. I return with her to-night.” 

“Then you will take a day off and run up to the Castle to 
see me?” asked the Colonel; “I have something of im- 
portance to say to you.” 

“I will come, with all my heart, sir; of course, it was my 
intention to run up to say good-bye, and get some good ad- 
vice,” answered Wilfrid. 

The old man looked pleased. He never thought of doubt- 
ing the honesty of his nephew’s assurances towards himself, 
or of questioning the motive that prompted the flattering 
affection he so frankly bestowed. 

“Good! Then we’ll call it Thursday, shall we?” said he. 

“Suits me exactly,” replied the young man. 

They had gradually been strolling down the sloping road 
toward the river landing, and now, as they crossed the rail- 
way tracks, the lascar came forward to assist his master into 
the boat. 

“Good-bye, my son,” said the Colonel, “you have made me 
very proud and very happy to-day. Good-bye!” shaking Wil- 
frid’s hand warmly, “and may you, too, be happy ’till we 
meet again.” 

Poor old man! Little did he know that the next day 
would sound his summons before the great Tribunal, and 
little did the young man guess that the brave old soldier 
would have gone to his last roll-call before the sun now dying 
in the Western sky should be born again in the East. As 
it was, both in ignorance of the dark to-morrow, stood in the 
happy light of the glad to-day, and waved smiling good-byes 
until the boat was lost to sight in the bend of the river. 

As it steamed slowly down stream, the old man sat silently, 
happy with thoughts of the day, and the beauty of the scene 
about him. He was enjoying the twilight on the little deck, 
when suddenly, without a moment’s warning, great drops of 
rain began to fall from the sky above and a peal of thunder 
rumbled in the distance. 

In a few minutes, darkness had settled over all the sum- 


46 


LIFE. 


mer sky, and changed it into a mass of lowering clouds, 
which every other moment were rent asunder by flashes of 
jagged lightning. 

The lascar hurried his master into the little cabin below 
and crouched on the floor at his feet. Anyone seeing his 
ashen face and starting eyes, during one of the white flashes, 
would have wondered at this craven fear of a summer storm. 

Poor Rama! It was not the storm that frightened him 
thus — ^but a strange and fearful significance, which froze his 
superstitious heart with terror. 

By the time they reached the private landing of the Castle, 
the storm had abated; and by ten o^clock, in the heavens 
there shone a starry infinitude of light. 

The old man retired immediately upon his return, being 
much fatigued with the unusual excitement of the day, and 
was soon sleeping quietly. The lascar sat in the shadow of 
the huge chimney place and watched his master’s peaceful 
slumber until something of the fear died out of his heart. 
And, being also tired, he dropped into a light doze; but 
strange dreams came to trouble him. It seemed that his 
master’s voice called him through his sleep, unceasingly. 
He awoke and with an inarticulate cry sprang to his feet, 
his eyes wide with fright. 

The Colonel reclined in a half-sitting posture against the 
head-board of the bed; his face white and beaded with sweat 
as he vainly tried to call for aid. 

The lascar recognized, in a flash, the return of the terrible 
heart failure, which had so often threatened his master’s life. 
He quickly rang the night-bell and as it jangled through the 
great house, half a dozen servants appeared in the doorway. 

‘^Hector, take red roan. Go for doctor!” commanded 
Rama, to one of them; and Hector ran to do his bidding, 
for in all things concerning the Colonel’s person, the lascar’s 
word was law. 

‘^Send for Maynard,” gasped the master, and another ser- 
vant was dispatched for the lawyer to the township three 
miles away. 


LIFE. 


47 


During the necessary lapse of time, before the physician 
could arrive, Kama, employed all the remedies which had 
been used so often with success, working without ceasing 
’till the agony was passed and his master lay back on the 
pillows, spent and weak, but free from pain. 

Within two hours both the doctor and the lawyer had ar- 
rived at the Castle. The old physician counted the weaken- 
ing pulse and looked at the grey, lax features. This was the 
end and he knew it in the first glance. 

The Colonel knew it, too. He opened his eyes. 

“Well, doctor,” he spoke with great effort, and a faint 
smile came about his stern mouth, “this is the last time I’ll 
be troubling you. I shall pass in my checks before morn- 
ing.” 

The old doctor knew better than to gainsay him, so he 
nodded, sympathetically.. 

“I am perfectly sane, and I have my full understanding,” 
went on the Colonel; “I have some final matters of im- 
portance to attend to, so if you could give a stimulant of 
some sort to enable me to, keep my strength long enough to 
get through with them, I should be glad.” 

The doctor administered a hypodermic. 

“That is better,” said the Colonel after a little. “Now, if 
you would act as witness to a change in my will and be 
willing to swear, if the future occasioned it, as to its valid- 
ity and the soundness of my mind, and so forth, I would be 
much obliged.” 

“Certainly, Colonel; I would be glad to render you any 
service in my power,” answered the doctor. 

The Colonel looked relieved. “Rama!” he said to the las- 
car, “go and bring Miss Angela to me.” The lascar obed- 
iently left the room. 

Thus it had ever been his way in life. The old soldier, in 
the shadow of death, with firm decision, gave out his wishes 
and commands to the little company about him as he had 
done to his armies in the past. 

While they waited for little Angela, the Colonel made 


48 


LIFE. 


known his wishes to the lawyer and the doctor, which both 
gentlemen swore should be respected no matter what claims 
or questions might be raised among the members of his 
family after his demise. 

When the strange will was drawn up in legal form, it 
read thus: 

“To my beloved ward, Angela Amee Churchill, do I give 
and bequeath the one-half of my property and estate, per- 
sonal and real. And to my nephew, Wilfrid Crowe McDon- 
ald, do I give and bequeath the other half of my property 
and estate, personal and real, on the condition that within 
six months after my death, the said Wilfrid Crowe McDon- 
ald take to wife, the said Angela Amee Churchill. In case 
of refusal of said nephew, Wilfrid Crowe McDonald, to com- 
ply with the terms of this Will to marry said Angela Amee 
Churchill, the whole of my property and estate, personal and 
real, reverts to said ward, Angela Amee Churchill. In case 
of the death of either party, Angela Amee Churchill, or 
Wilfrid Crowe McDonald, the whole reverts to the living 
party.’^ 

The doctor wrote his name as one witness, and Rama was 
to be the other, by his master’s wish. Just at this moment 
the lascar returned to the room, leading little Angela by the 
hand. 

The Colonel beckoned the two to his side. The doctor and 
Mr. Maynard were re-reading the document at the centre 
table, beneath the light which hung above it. The old man 
took one of Rama’s hands in one of his own, anJ one of the 
child’s in the other; their two other hands were still clasped 
as when they had entered the room. 

“Angela,” said the Colonel, “I am going on a long journey, 
but I have tried to leave you not only wealth, but with con- 
ditions toward the making of your future life one of great 
happiness.” 

The little girl wound her thin arms around his great neck 
and wept softly. 

“And you, Rama,” he said to the lascar, who with bowed 


LIFE. 


49 


head and white, silent lips, prayed ceaselessly to the gods of 
his fathers, ‘‘stay you near her always, and, as you have ever 
been faithful to me, when I am gone from you, be faithful 
to my daughter/* 

The lascar started and looked at his master, his eyes 
opened wide for a moment; then he bowed his head till it 
touched the ground. “Yes, Sahib,” he said. Ignorant 
heathen that he was, his heart had read in his master’s words 
a something the learned men over at the table had failed to 
grasp. 

********** 

At sunrise the next morning, the Castle flag flew at half 
mast; the north portal was hung with black. The master 
of the house lay in the great hall, his hand on the sword it 
would never wield again, and the lascar and little Angela 
had gathered all the blossoms from the red rose garden of 
the chateau and laid them upon his breast. 


CHAPTEE VI. 


HOME FROM A FOREIGN LAND. 

My Native Country, thee — 

Land of the noble, free — 

Thy name I love ! 

I love thy rocks and rills. 

Thy woods and templed hills ; 

My heart with rapture thrills. 

Like that above. 

— Samuel Francis Smith 

A great concourse of people had gathered together at the 
pier of the White Star Steamship Company, in the city 
of New York. 

The poor man jostled against the rich; the store-keeper’s 
wife, of the tenement district, brushed her worn and greasy 
dress against the delicate fabric worn by the fashionable 
lady who lived “up town;” and the bootblack and the huck- 
ster elbowed their way past the merchant and the millionaire, 
all alike anxious to catch a first glimpse of the great ship 
from Liverpool, now opposite Castle Garden, and coming up 
the river. 

A splash was heard. A little crippled newsboy, who had 
ventured too near the edge of the dock, had been pushed by 
the surging crowd, into the water. 

Women screamed; men looked at each other in helpless 
dismay and called for help. 

The poor lad rose to the surface, raised one hand in mute 
appeal and gazed piteously and pleadingly at anxious faces 
on the dock, then sank again. None knew what to do. All 
seemed stupefied with horror, when a man, who stood head 
and shoulders above most of his fellows, rushed through the 
crowd, pushing one one way and another another, until he 
reached the edge. 


LIFE. 


61 


^‘Where is he?’^ he asked. 

• ^‘There!” shouted a score of voices, as the cripple rose 
again. 

The man stopped not to remove either coat or hat, but 
plunged headlong into the river and before the lad could 
sink again, a stout arm was around his waist and with rapid 
strokes, a brave swimmer was rushing him through the 
water towards a barge which was moored alongside the pier. 

A great cheer rent the air. 

A dozen willing ones jumped from the pier on to the barge, 
all anxious to relieve the swimmer of his burden and assist 
the rescuer to clamber on the deck. 

One of the first to lend a hand was Richard Crowe. 

“A lucky thing for the boy. Major, that you happened to 
be here,” he said, as he passed the limp form of the cripple 
to two of the company’s men and grasped the Major’s hand, 
“but it is only what might have been expected of you. You 
have done nobly I” 

“I have done nothing,” replied the Major, “except to take 
a short swim, with a little theatrical effect thrown in, for 
the benefit of the audience;” as he glanced casually at the 
many admiring looks on the faces of those around him. 
“Look out for the lad and use him gently,” he added to the 
two men, who had carried the half-drowned boy to the pier 
above and were starting with him to the office, “don’t let 
him go until I interview him. I am a reporter on the Morn- 
ing Journal and I think I can make this little romance of 
extreme interest to our readers.” 

“What can I do for you, sir?” questioned a portly, well 
dressed gentleman, evidently a man of means, who stood 
beside him. 

“Nothing!” replied the newspaper man, as he took off his 
coat, gave one end of it to Richard Crowe and began to twist 
and turn it, so as to wring the water from it. 

“At least, you will let me shake your hand?” and he of- 
fered his. 


LIFE. 


“Better not, sir; I am very damp and I might splash your 
well-made clothes.” 

“Well-made clothes be hanged, sir! You are a hero and 

heroes are mighty scarce now-a-days. D n it all, sir! 

you must let me do something for you.” 

“I have said, sir, that you can do nothing for me, but you 
can for the boy,” said the Major, still busily trying to force 
the water from his coat. “I have lost my hat. I think I 
can see it yonder, floating up stream with the tide on its 
way to Harlem;” and he laughed heartily in spite of his mis- 
fortune. “Would you mind taking your silk hat and going 
amongst the people and asking a subscription for the boy? 
He is doubtless very poor and needs it. It will not only be 
an act of charity, but a deed of incalculable good. You 
donH object, do you?” 

“Object? I should say not!” replied the stout individual. 
Instantly, his hat came from his head, his hand from his 
pocket and as he opened it, a goodly collection of coins, in- 
cluding a few gold pieces, were easily recognizable; these he 
dropped into the hat. “And woe to the man who refuses to 
drop in his quota when I approach him,” he continued; “now 
don’t you run away, up there!” he called to a number of 
people on the pier, who began to move in another direction, 
“and what is more, don’t be looking for the smallest coin in 
your pockets, as you do when you go to church on Sundays. 
This is a real charitable act and I want you all to chip in as 
if you really meant it.” 

“Let me in there!” said Kichard Crowe; and he dropped a 
five dollar note into the hat. The amount represented one- 
third of all he had in the world that morning, but it brought 
Richard more pleasure to give than to receive and he was 
happy. 

While the tinkling coins could be heard dropping into the 
hat of the portly gentleman, he continued: “Now, Major, 
you had better jump into a hack and drive home as rapidly 
as possible. You must have a rub down and some dry 


LIFE. 


63 


clothes. Men like you are scarce and we don’t want you to 
be carried away by pneumonia.” 

^‘Pneumonia, or no pneumonia, I must remain here,” said 
the Major. have been sent to report the arrival of the 
liner and report it, I will!” and he stooped down and wrung 
the water from his long black curly hair. 

‘‘But you will catch a fearful cold,” replied Kichard. 

“Mow, don’t let trifles worry you;” said the Major, with a 
hearty laugh. “I do not, then why should you? A little 
whiskey will soon warm my insides and with a little exercise, 
the outside will take care of itself,” and he started to the 
pier above. 

“I am- mighty sorry that I haven’t any with me,” added 
Eichard, as he followed him up the steps. 

“My dear sah, I am never without it,” said a soldierly 
looking gentleman who stood on the pier. He held a large 
flask in his hand, which he politely offered to the Major. 

“Colonel, I’ll bet you’re from Kentucky,” said the Major, 
as he took the flask, unscrewed its silver top and placed the 
bottle to his lips. 

“You are right, sah; and I am proud of my native State. 
It is the home of nature’s noblemen, sah ; its grass is blue and 
its whiskey, sah, cannot be beaten in any State or country 
in the world.” 

“If this is a sample, I agree with you most heartily,” said 
the Major, offering the bottle to its owner. 

“Oh! drink it all, sah; there is plenty more where that 
came from,” said the Kentuckian. 

“Well, since you are so kind and your liquor so good, I 
don’t care if I do!” laughed the Major and again he placed 
the bottle to his lips. 

“Goes down like mother’s milk!” laughed the Kentuckian. 

“Or oil!” added the Major with a smile, as he turned the 
flask upside down to convince its owner that not a drop of 
the liquor had been wasted. “Such nectar is flt for the gods 
and I can now defy the cold in spite of my damp clothing.” 


54 


LIFE. 


“If you will step into the engine room, you can dry your 
clothes, or the company will be pleased to supply you with 
new ones,” said a gentleman to whom the incident had been 
reported and who had just arrived upon the scene. He was 
a man in authority, evidently, for the White Star Company. 

“Shall I have time, before the passengers are landed?” 
asked the Major. “I am a reporter and my duty must re- 
ceive consideration in spite of these damp obstacles.” 

The nose of the great liner had now reached the front end 
of the dock. 

“Oh, yes,” replied the officer, “the tide is running very 
strong and it will take at least half an hour before the ship 
can be made fast and the gang plank let down.” 

Thus persuaded, the Major, accompanied by Richard, after 
shaking hands with the Kentuckian, followed the officer to 
the engine room, where a rubbing, warming and drying pro- 
cess was quickly gone through for the benefit of both man 
and clothing. 

By this time our portly friend, by means of wit, pleading 
and ridicule had obtained something from every man and 
woman on the pier and his large silk hat was beginning to 
bulge and lose its shape from the weight and bulk of its 
contents. 

“On behalf of the boy, I thank you, one and all t” he said, 
as he addressed the crowd. “You can all go to your homes 
to-night with the satisfaction of knowing that you have 
helped a poor crippled child to be very happy.” 

And he carried the hat to the office, where the boy was 
being resuscitated by strong and willing hands, who knew 
better how to restore animation than either doctor or sur- 
geon. 

“Hully Gee !” said the boy, as he opened his eyes and gazed 
doubtfully around him. “Pinch me. Governor, an’ see if I 
am really here.” 

“Oh! You are here, all right!” said one of the sailors. 


LIFE. 


55 


who had been rubbing the life back into his little worn and 
wasted body. 

‘‘Ain’t a guyin’ me, be ye?” asked the boy. “I fought as 
how I was a goner dat time, certin’ — an’ de last time dat I 
went down, I could see me mudder an’ de kid a’ starvin’, 
’cause I weren’t here to s’pport ’em, as I’ve had ter do since 
me ladder died.” 

“Do you support yer mother, Johnny?” asked the tar. 

“’Deed I do, sir; she takes in washin’ when she kin, but 
dat ain’t of’en; ’cause she’s nearly always sick; an’ den de 
kid — she’s only ten months old and mudder can’t leave her 
alone fer long.” 

“I shouldn’t think she could,” said the sailor, as he 
pounded and rubbed the body of the boy until he made him 
wince. “What’s yer name, Johnny?” he continued. 

“Well, ’faint Johnny, boss; it’s Ned.” 

“Ned what?” 

“Ned Riley.” 

“Then you must be Irish I” 

“I ain’t neiderl” said the boy, sitting up, and his eyes 
shone with indignant fire. “I’se a true born American, I is. 
Can’t ye tell it by the way I talks ? I ain’t got no brogue.” 

“Good !” cried the sailor, and he pounded a little harder. 

“Say, boss, is you’se in trainin’ fer a prize fight?” asked the 
youngster. 

“No! Why?” and the big man laughed. 

“ ’Cause I tink you’se made a punchin’ bag out o’ me about 
long enough. I feels purty good now an’ if ye’ve no objec- 
tion, I’d like to put on me duds an’ go.” 

“Go? Where?” 

It was the portly gentleman who now questioned him. 

“Why, ter get a new supply o’ evening papers, ter be sure. 
Reckon me last stock is at de bottom o’ de river an’ de fishes 
a’ readin’ of ’em now, an’ dey don’t pay me fer de news. Oh, 
I’ve got ter get money fer mudder ’fore I goes home ter 
night.” 


56 


LIFE. 


His wet clothes had been dried and he was hastily putting 
them on, as he spoke the preceding words. 

‘^And money for your mother, you shall have,” said the 
gentleman, as he stepped to one side and pointed to the col- 
lection he had made and which was now counted and lay 
upon the table; the notes and various coins in separate piles. 

'^ully Gee I” ejaculated the youngster. He had been pul- 
ling his shirt over his head and nothing but his eyes, nose 
and mouth protruded through the neck band. “Is dis a 
bank? Why, I never sowr so much money in all me life!” 

“And if it were all yours, what would you do with it?” 
asked the gentleman. 

“Do? Why, I’d buy mudder some new clothes, an’ de kid 
some new shoes, a doll an’ a short dress, an’ I’d pay de 
rent an’ de grocer an’ butcher fer a hulle year in advance; 
an’ der rest — ” he paused, thought for a moment, and then, 
looking into the eyes of his benefactor, said: “der rest, — 
I’d put in de bank fer mudder, fer a rainy day.” 

Glistening, uncontrollable tears stood in the gentleman’s 
eyes and trickled down his cheeks. 

“You have not thought of yourself,” he said. 

“Why, I wants nothin’,” said the boy. “I ain’t no dood, 
an’ if I had on good clothes, de rest of de news kids would 
guy me, — an’ so long as mudder an’ de little one is happy, 
why, — ^I must be happy, too.” 

The gentleman stooped down and pressed the unselfish 
little cripple to his heart. 

“The money is yours, my lad; to do as you like with it;” 
he said, the tears coming faster now. He stood up, took 
his handkerchief from his pocket and began to blow his nose 
most violently. 

“Well, now I knows I’m drowned an’ dead, sure, — an’ gone 
ter heaven!” said the boy; he was crying, too, as he looked 
up into the face of the philanthropist. “Are you an angel, 
sir?” he continued. 

“No!” laughed the other. “I am of the earth, earthly, and 


LIFE. 


67 


you, too, my little man, are very much alive and should be 
very happy, for all of that money belongs to you.” 

‘‘Ter me? Gee-rusalemI Mine and muddeFsI” He 
stopped suddenly and looked anxiously but doubtingly at his 
benefactor. 

*^Yer ain’t a-laffin’ at me, are ye, sir?” he questioned. 

**NoI it is yours to do with as you please.” 

“But where did it come from, sir?” 

“From the people on the dock. After you were saved from 
the water, each subscribed his or her little mite, so as to give 
you a lift in life.” * 

“I didn’t know dere were so many good people in de 
world,” said Ned. “Drown me all over again, fer I wouldn’t 
mind agoin’ through dis every day in de week, if I could 
only make mudder as happy as she’ll be ter night.” 

The office door opened and the Major entered. 

“How are you, my little man?” he asked, as he came to- 
ward the boy. 

“Why, I’m in clover. I is in de front rank of de bally!” 
replied the boy, exultingly. ‘T’m a regular J. Pierpont Mor- 
gan! Jest look at me pile!” and he pointed to the money 
on the table. 

The Major glanced proudly at the money; then crossed to 
the portly gentleman and wrung his hand, warmly. 

“Colonel, you did nobly,” he said; and he walked out of 
the room, closing the door behind him. 

“Who’s dat?” questioned the boy. 

“The man who saved your life !” 

“What! And I didn’t t’ank him!” cried Ned, and cripple 
though he was, he ran towards the door and opened it, but 
the crowd outside was so great that the Major could not be 
seen. 

“Take care o’ de pile ’till I come back,” he continued; “I 
must find and tank de gentleman, if it’s de last t’ing I do.” 

And he went out and elbowed his way in and out amongst 
the crowd, but his saviour could not be found. 


68 


LIFE. 


The Major knew that the boy was looking for him and 
purposely eluded him. He was a man who believed in doing 
his duty and hated thanks and flattery ; for that reason there 
was no report made of the accident in his paper. It would 
have called attention to himself and that, he did not desire. 

The great ship was now safely within its slip ; the hawsers 
made fast to the dock and the sailors were ready to let down 
the plank. 

Julian and Mary were standing, side by side, on the hurri- 
cane deck; he, glad to be again in his native land, which he 
loved so well; and Mary, with her great blue eyes wonder- 
ingly gazing at all around her. 

Her face was pale and her eyes red; for, daily, since her 
father^s death, she had wept bitterly. Julian had comforted 
her; had read to her words of consolation from the Scrip- 
tures and explained to her why she should not mourn for the 
dead, but should prepare herself to meet him in that better 
land where he had gone and from which, he was now doubt- 
less gazing down’ upon her, anxious to see that her footsteps 
were being guided in the right direction. 

And Mary had already begun to look upon Julian as a 
sister looks upon a brother. Her father had given her to him 
and he was her only friend. 

From the moment the ship had come up beside the dock, 
Julian had been anxiously looking amongst the many faces 
on shore in the vain hope of recognizing his mother, brother 
or some friend. 

^^Surely they must have received my cable,” he thought. 
“Why is it that there’s no one here 

“Hello, Julian!” called a voice from among the friends of 
the passengers, who were eagerly pushing and crowding each 
other, all trying to gain a point of vantage over his neighbor 
and struggling to get nearer the front. 

The speaker was Eichard Crowe. 

“How are you. Uncle Hick?” cried Julian, gladly. “Where 
are mother, Wilfrid, Aunt Eliza and the rest?” 


LIFE. 


69 


at West Point!” shouted his uncle, so as to be heard 
above the din of voices. ^^This is Wilfrid’s graduation day. 
The others have gone to see him, but I came here to be the 
first to see you.” 

“Thank you. Uncle Dick,” replied Julian. There was a 
tone of disappointment in his voice. He had been absent 
for a whole year. “Surely mother should have been here to 
welcome me,” he thought. And his heart went out toward 
and beat warmly for his Uncle Dick, who worshipped and 
adored him above all living men. 

“Not married, are you?” shouted Kichard, as he noticed 
Mary standing by his nephew’s side. 

Julian shook his head. 

Mary blushed and smiled. 

It was the first smile that had crossed her face since the 
night her father died. 

“Well, if there is anything of the kind in the wind, I ex- 
pect to have the first chance to report it, old fellow! — Julian, 
old boy, how are you?” 

The minister recognized the tall form and beaming face of 
the Major, who was fairly yelling at the top of his voice; 
excitedly waving a handkerchief and smiling at his old 
friend and schoolmate. 

“Business prevents my seeing you to-night,” he continued, 
“but I shall call at your house to-morrow and mind, I must 
be the first to give a history of your travels to the world !” 
and the Major disappeared as if by magic. 

He had seen Ned, the cripple boy, approaching. 


CHAPTEE VII. 


THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 

“Two women : And one was made of all the vain vices mortals know, 
The other, shamed the summer with her eyes, 

The winter with her forehead’s fairest snow.” 

The sunlight was streaming in the front windows of a 
handsome house of upper Fifth avenue, much to the annoy- 
ance of an occupant of one of its most gorgeous rooms. 
The previous night had been warm and the blinds had been 
thrown wide open to admit what breeze might blow that 
way. 

But now, the darkness gone, the dancing sun rays played 
havoc with the would-be peaceful slumber of the tired man 
on the bed. Not fully aroused to the point of getting up 
and closing the windows himself, or of even stretching out 
his hand to touch the bell that would summon a maid to do 
it for him, he lay in half consciousness, turning this way 
and that, the merry beams ever following in the wake of his 
tousled curls, until, in desperation, he jumped bolt upright 
into the middle of the floor, where he stood for two minutes 
swearing like a trooper. Then he closed up the blinds, pulled 
down the shades and threw himself again across the bed to 
finish his nap. 

But this was not the morning programme which Fate had 
prepared for him. His new slumbers were scarcely of ten 
minutes duration when a sharp knock on the door, followed 
by his mother’s hasty entrance, brought Wilfrid, for it was 
none other than he, to his upright posture once more; but 
this time his ready-to-serve string of oaths got no further 
than the first one and were then omitted from the bill of fare 
as he recognized this latest intruder. 


LIFE. 


61 


^‘Ah! it’s you! Good morning, mother,” he exclaimed. 
^^Open the windows if you like and have a little more light 
upon the subject.” 

“Wilfrid, my dear, I have a telegram for you; you had 
better dress as quickly as possible and come down to my 
room and we’ll talk about it.” 

“Why, mother, what can it be to have made you serious?” 
he asked in surprise. “It must be news worth hearing to 
make you look so grave.” 

“It seems,” replied Mrs. St. Julian, “that your uncle 
Thornbury died last night, or rather early this morning 
and ” 

“Good God!” ejaculated Wilfrid. “You don’t say so! 
Go on, — and what?” 

“Well, his lawyer, a Mr. Maynard, has sent to say that it 
is most important that you go up to the Castle as soon as 
possible. I wouldn’t be surprised, Wilfrid, if he hasn’t named 
you for a good, round sum in his will.” 

“Oh, mother ! Don’t, — so soon !” 

“What?” asked his mother, surprised. “You turning sen- 
timental, too, — ^like Julian?” 

“No,” said Wilfrid, shortly. He hardly knew himself 
why her words had grated so disagreeably upon him, but 
they had; and for the moment he quite disliked his mother 
and his tone conveyed as much to her. 

She laughed a little shamefacedly, and flushed beneath the 
rouge. She was vexed to have been betrayed into an ac- 
knowledgment of the secret avarice which had prompted 
her unwomanly and unnatural speech. Mrs. St. Julian was 
one of those women who are quite as well satisfled in “as- 
suming a virtue if they have it not,” as in the real posses- 
sion of it. Her every day life was constituted along pretty 
much the same lines as her daily complexion. Her actions, 
like her cheeks, were tinted carefully for the world’s admira- 
tion and only the rouge pot in the dresser drawer at home. 


62 


LIFE. 


and the long suffering maid who put it there, could have 
told the difference. 

‘^You will go, of course ventured the lady. 

‘^Certainly; by the first train. And I think you should 
come, too, mother; it is only showing the proper respect, you 
know ; and you are his sister.” 

His mother raised reproachful eyes to his. ‘^Why, Wilfrid, 
how can you be so thoughtless as to ask such a thing of me ? 
With my poor nerves 1 You might know I could never go 
through such a painful ordeal. You forget. It is my 
brother, — ^my eldest brother, — she said. 

Wilfrid turned away so that she should not see the smile 
which came involuntarily to his face; a smile which drew 
his mouth down at the corners and would have quite dis- 
concerted the lady had she seen it. 

^‘Yes,” she continued, piteously, ‘fit has been such a 
shock; poor dear Thornburyl So well only yesterday, — and 
this is a very trying time of the year to wear mourning, and 
Adelaide hasn’t the remotest idea of good taste in such 
things. I will have to get it very carefully ; it is apt to make 
a person look so much older if not selected with great fore- 
thought and suitability. Poor Thornbury! I hope he did 
think enough of his only sister to remember her in some 
way. I was always so fond of him. You can’t think how 
expensive mourning is. Oh, dear ! Such is life.” 

When she had ceased rambling, Wilfrid suggested that 
she go out and let him dress, as he was desirous of catching 
the first train to the little township three miles beyond the 
Castle, and getting a horse there and riding over. 

He was really shocked and sorry for the old soldier’s sud- 
den death, and something other than his wish to hear the 
terms of the will would carry him to Ballyhoo. When he 
had completed his toilet, he went down stairs to the morn- 
ing breakfast room, where he found an unexpected surprise 
awaiting him. 

Julian had arrived the day before from his long trip 


LIFE. 


63 


abroad, and stood talking with his mother, who lay back in 
her chair, half frowning, half sneering at a little creature 
beside him, whom Julian held fast by one hand. Wilfrid 
had paused a moment in the open doorway to take in the 
situation and he wondered at the meaning of the group be- 
fore him. 

“Eeally, Julian,” his mother was saying, ^‘you grow more 
absurd every time I see you. My house is no orphan asylum 
or working girls’ home. Certainly, the creature can not 
stay here.” 

The ^‘creature” shrank nearer to the young minister and 
hid her face against the black coat sleeve nearest her, so 
that Wilfrid saw her profile for a moment. 

“For Heaven’s sake I” thought the young fellow to him- 
self, “has Julian gone and taken unto himself a wife, — 
and brought her back to ‘home and mother?’ And was 
‘mother’ kicking up a row about it?” 

But Julian’s next words settled that question in the nega- 
tive. 

“And you will not oblige me, mother, and house this poor 
orphan until I can find suitable quarters for her?” he 
pleaded. 

“Most certainly not” replied her ladyship. 

Julian flushed and pressed his lips hard to keep back the 
bitter words that came crowding to them. 

“And furthermore, Julian,” went on his mother, “if you 
can not come to see me in the future without dragging such 
questions and discussions into our relations, you need not 
trouble to come at all. I am quite worn out with such non- 
sense. Even Wilfrid is getting the fever. Pretended to be 
quite shocked at me this morning for presuming to suppose 
that your Uncle Thornbury had remembered him in his 
will! A most natural supposition, and I’ll wager my best 
ear-rings that I only spoke his thoughts aloud.” 

Julian had started slightly at the abrupt announcement 


64 


LIFE. 


of his uncle’s death, and Mary lifted her head to see what 
the trouble was. 

The sunlight poured in upon the fair short curls tumb- 
ling about her shoulders, making a bright aureole above the 
delicate cameo features. As she raised her blue eyes to 
Julian’s face, something in their expression made Wilfrid 
think of Marjory. rustic Marjory, — only more so,” was 
his peculiar inward comment. “Gee, but she is a beauty I” 
As though his thoughts had penetrated her own conscious- 
ness, Mary flushed suddenly and turned her face toward him. 
“Oh !” she exclaimed, in soft confusion and dropped her head. 

Julian had followed her glance, and now a smile like Wil- 
frid’s own, — ^but with a difference, — lit up his grave, dark 
features. He was very fond of Wilfrid, and strange to say, 
Wilfrid was very fond, — in his careless way, — of Julian. It 
was, perhaps, the only real affection he felt for any one on 
earth, and while he chaffed J ulian for being “an ass to throw 
away his youth and talents in the slums” — he secretly ad- 
mired the strength of character and absolute unselfishness of 
his brother (as a lesser mind so often admires what it cannot 
grasp or understand), and he had more than once, in a 
shame-faced way, given donations out of his allowance, to 
Julian’s parish work, not because he cared anything about 
the poor to whom it went, but he liked his brother well 
enough to enjoy pleasing him occasionally. 

Now the two met each other with a hearty hand clasp and 
such sincere affection that it distinctly nettled Mrs. St. 
Julian. She always felt small in the light of anything true 
or genuine. Now she felt smaller than ever as it flashed 
across her mind that Wilfrid might have heard the conversa- 
tion just finished. She didn’t care what Julian thought of 
her, but she hated to appear mean and ignoble in Wilfrid’s 
eyes. 

“Well, Julian,” she said, in her hard little way, interrupt- 
ing the brothers’ exchange of greetings ; “I suppose you had 


LIFE. 


65 


better be going. Your young friend seems quite tired out 
from standing so long.’^ 

“Can’t you ask her to be seated, mother ?” 

It was Wilfrid who spoke, and his voice was as uncom- 
promising as her own, and the look he bent upon her made 
her wince. 

She paused a moment, then she rose, looking the picture 
of insulted dignity. 

“Sit down, girl/* she said. 

“No, I thank you,” said Mary, a flush overspreading her 
delicate face. “I prefer standing.” 

This was too much. The lady of the house, with one dis- 
dainful, crushing look at poor Mary and a swift glance of 
withering scorn at the two young men, swept from the room 
with the air of an empress, her silk skirts swishing and her 
French heels tapping the hardwood floor of the hall as she 
walked rapidly away. 

“Routed with slaughter!” exclaimed Wilfrid. And he 
laughed till the roof sang. It floated down the hall and 
reached her ladyship’s ears, just as she reached the threshold 
of her own room. She stopped a moment and her face and 
lips grew white beneath the rouge ; then she burst in the door, 
slammed it behind her, — and screamed! 

The sound came faintly back to the two sons, in the break- 
fast room. Julian looked pained and grew slightly pale. He 
could not kill the inborn reverence in his nature for this 
woman who should have been his mother. Wilfrid laughed 
in a vexed way. “One of her tantrums,” he said shortly. 
“Don’t bother.” 

Then he made Mary sit down, peeled an orange for her, 
and passed over his dish of berries with a smiile that was 
more inviting than the rich cream he poured over them. 

“Now,” he said; “I want to talk to this run-away brother 
of mine, so I am going to ask you to share my breakfast 
while I’m keeping you. You must have had a very early 


3 


66 


LIFE. 


meal this morning and I know you’re hungry by this time. 
She must eat these berries anyhow, musn’t she, Julian?” 

Julian flushed with pleasure at Wilfrid’s kindly treat- 
ment of his poor little ward. ‘‘Yes, Mary, dear; eat them. 
They will do you good,” he said, smiling at her. Then he 
turned to his brother. “It’s awfully good of you. Will,” he 
said, aside. “The poor child has had a hard trip over and 
mother has hurt her very much.” 

Then he told Wilfrid her pitiful story and every now and 
then, the younger man glanced admiringly at the pretty pic- 
ture the girl made, her blue eyes looking about her in amaze- 
ment at the costly, beautiful room, her red lips, redder and 
sweeter than the fresh berries she put between them and 
munched with delicious enjoyment. 

Wilfrid, in turn, recounted to Julian the news of his suc- 
cessful graduation, his assignment to the cavalry regiment 
leaving Saturday for the front, his uncle’s death, the lawyer’s 
telegram and his plan to go at once to Ballyhoo. 

“I think, Julian,” he added; “that it would be the right 
thing for you to go, too. Mother won*t go, and I think you 
and I should. What do you say?” 

“I think you are right, Wilfrid,” returned his brother. 
“I would go right away with you now, — but what shall I do 
with Mary?” 

“Can’t you send her down to the parsonage ? Won’t Aunt 
Betsy look after her till you get back?” 

“Certainly, but how will I get her to the parsonage? She 
knows absolutely nothing about the city.” 

“Send her in the carriage with James,” suggested Wilfrid. 

“James may take her in the street car!” said his mother 
from the doorway. 

James will taJce her in the carriage!** reiterated Wilfrid, 
sternly and scowling darkly at the lady. 

“Webster!” to the butler, who stood aside, politely deaf, 
dumb and blind, if one might judge from his wooden visage; 
“tell J ames to drive the carriage round to the door as quickly 
as possible. Will you be seated, mother?” pushing a chair 


LIFE. 


67 


towards his mother as she remained standing in speechless, 
impotent rage. Her ladyship sank into it, unable to believe 
her ears. ^‘This warm weather,” continued her son, “is so 
trying on one and to remain long on one’s feet, quite wears 
one out. There now, that is better, isn’t it?” with a smile 
of sweetest interest and affection, as he placed a hassock 
beneath her French heeled boots. 

“The kerridge is riddy, sor!” announced the imperturbable 
Webster, at this juncture. 

“So soon? Ah, that’s good. This is the young lady, 
Webster. She is to go to Mr. Julian’s house, — the parsonage. 
James knows the address. Now, my dear,” to Mary, “if you 
will follow Webster, he will see you safely in the carriage. 
It has been a pleasure to meet you,” — shaking hands and 
smiling kindly on the awe-struck, astonished child, — “and 
I hope I will have the good fortune to see you again in the 
future.” 

“Be a good girl, Mary, until I come,” added Julian with 
a kindly pat on her bright head. “Tell Aunt Betsy, I say 
to take good care of you. Good-bye, dear.” 

“Good-bye,” answered the child. She shook hands with 
each in turn, then went over to Mrs. St. Julian’s chair. 

“Good morning, madame,” she said, bobbing a pretty 
courtesy. 

The lady’s eyes closed and her lips curled. 

“Go with Webster, my dear,” interposed Julian. 

“And, Webster!” put in Wilfrid, “tell James to drive the 
lady down the avenue; she will doubtless enjoy it.” 

This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The 
French heels of the lady in the chair, stamped the hassock 
beneath them, to the detriment of the swishy petticoats, and 
the rouge was all washed away for the second time that 
morning, — by the torrent that quite spoiled the beauty of the 
lady’s eyes. 

Wilfrid took her firmly by the shoulders, raised her to her 
feet and led her from the room. Such an expose before the 
servants annoyed him intensely. 


68 


LIFE. 


When he came back, he found Julian in a great state of 
perturbation. “What — were those — red and — black smears 
on her face?” he stammered, — blushing for the answer he 
feared. 

“Oh, paint and powder and Madame Vinton’s eyelash 
paste,” answered Wilfrid, blushing, too. “Come, Jule! We 
have wasted enough time with the madame’s foolishness; we 
must be getting on to Ballyhoo.” 


CHAPTEK VIII. 


A STRANGE WILL. 

’Tis all a chequer-board of nights and days 
Where Destiny with men for pieces plays. 

— Owor Khayyam. 

The master of Ballyhoo had been laid to rest. His death 
had resurrected the public excitement which had prevailed 
when he first returned to his native land, and newspapers 
recounted whole columns of the brave deeds with which his 
strange career was filled. He had been accorded a magnifi- 
cent military funeral and the rose-covered casket followed 
for the last time, the thirteen crepe ribboned flags of as 
many nations, for which he had fought so well. Cablegrams 
were received from the heads of many armies and memorials 
were to be read in almost every foreign paper. As ‘‘a 
prophet is not without honor save in his own country,” so 
had it been in a measure the famous soldier’s fate. Hot un- 
til death revealed to his family the fame and importance ac- 
corded him abroad, did they begin to appreciate the great 
worth of the man they had slighted and insulted with their 
petty quarrels. . And public men and men of letters and 
brain regretted they had not made the most of the opportun- 
ity of knowing so brave and extraordinary a man and soldier. 
They had harbored a great hero unawares and missed the 
privilege of honoring him. But their regret, like all regrets, 
came too late. The master of Ballyhoo was borne to his rest 
amid a procession of thousands of his country-men, and in 
all that cortege of souls, only two were wrung with grief; 
the poor Indian Lascar, who, in his native garb of white 
mourning, followed on foot in the immediate wake of his 
master’s bier, and the little Angela, pitifully small in her 


fO 


LIFE. 


black clothes, huddled lonely and miserable in a corner of the 
carriage, just behind him. Wilfrid and Julian had been 
truly affected, for each in his way, esteemed the old soldier; 
and Eichard Crowe, remembering boyhood days spent to- 
gether, had been touched also. 

Mrs. St. Julian had been so pleased and impressed with 
the pomp and magnificence of the grand military display 
that she hadn^t mind enough to entertain any other thought 
aside from her personal importance in the affair. She hoped 
Mrs. Croker Smith was there to see it all, and that Mrs. Bar- 
ton French would read all about in the Paris papers. As 
soon as she could decently leave off her mourning, clothed in 
her new robes of indisputable distinction as the sister of the 
famous soldier, she would give an entertainment and slight 
Mrs. Barton French in return for that dinner at which she 
had been “forgotten” last season. 

Now, it was all over, — and the last day of Wilfrid’s leave 
of absence. The family assembled, at Mr. Maynard’s re- 
quest, in the great library of the castle, to hear the reading 
of the Colonel’s will. 

Before breaking the seal, the lawyer made a little address 
to the party in which he briefly explained that the conditions 
of the will would be absolutely inviolate, they being the last 
wishes of the testator; for on his death-bed. Col. Thornbury 
Crowe had been in absolutely sound mind. This last state- 
ment was corroborated by the attending physician, who, at 
Mr. Maynard’s request, was also present. 

Each one of his listeners sat in characteristic attitudes of 
interest and expectancy. 

Mrs. St. Julian, swathed in fashionable mourning, sat on 
the edge of her chair. Her hands were cold and two crim- 
son spots burned on her high cheek bones. 

Eichard sat with his legs apart, his big hands resting on 
his fat stomach, clearing his throat nervously, once in a 
while. 

Julian, interested only in his own case on behalf of his 
poor parishioners, was lost in contemplation of a great paint- 


LIFE. 


71 


ing of the old soldier, which hung on the wall directly oppo- 
site him. 

Little Angela had crawled timidly into her guardian’s ac- 
customed chair by the chimney and the Lascar crouched at 
her feet. They had grown to be great friends, these two, 
and the faithful Kama had seldom let her out of his sight 
since his dead master had consigned her in his charge. 

Wilfrid had seated himself with his back to the light and 
only the outline of his graceful figure, leaning easily back 
in the big arm chair, could be distinguished. He was, per- 
haps, the most intensely interested and excited of all, but 
never, by look or sign, did he betray the fact. One would 
suppose from his attitude that he was rather bored than 
otherwise, or, to say the least, extremely nonchalant. 

Mrs. Richard, in behalf of her husband, was fiushed and 
would have been voluble had she dared. And the little old 
doctor was watching all keenly, curious to see the effect the 
strange testament would produce on the different relatives. 

The lawyer cleared his throat and began reading the pre- 
liminaries. 

There was a small yearly sum to be given for Julian’s 
charities; a generous life-long annuity for ^^my faithful and 
beloved servant, the Indian Lascar, known as Rama Khudi” 
— (a sob from the corner by the chimney) ; a sum for the 
pension list for the widows and orphans of soldiers; a sum 
set aside for the maintenance of the Castle Ballyhoo, and 
the especial request that it be regarded. The lawyer stopped 
and cleared his throat before proceeding. 

A little impatient fiurry, followed by a keen look of ex- 
pectancy on every face, except that of the child and the Las- 
car in the chimney corner. 

Mr. Maynard begain again : “And to my beloved ward, 
Angela Amee Churchill, do I give and bequeath half of all 
my entire estate, personal and real; and to my nephew, Wil- 
frid Crowe McDonald, — (the man in the shadow pressed his 
lips together) — do I give and bequeath the other half of my 
entire estate, personal and real” — (a cry of joy from Mrs. St. 


72 


LIFE. 


Julian) ; the lawyer raised his voice a trifle and spoke very 
distinctly, — ^‘on condition that within six months after my 
death, he take to wife, — (the man in question sat bolt up- 
right and gripped the arms of his chair), — the said ward, 
Angela Amee Churchill.” 

There was a startled cry from the child in the corner, then 
all was silence. 

The old doctor would have given a year’s income to have 
seen the face of the young man in the shadow, but Wilfrid 
had been wise, and the wish was futile. 

There was a minute’s pause. Everybody seemed too as- 
tounded to speak. Then came the deluge and all talked at 
once. 

Mrs. St. Julian screamed, Julian looked worried and was 
silent; Angela flung herself on the floor beside the Lascar 
and sobbed. Wilfrid swore and walked hurriedly back and 
forth. Kichard said: ^^Humph,” and looked wise. Mrs. 
Richard denounced the dead man till Julian stopped her, 
and Mr. Maynard and the doctor winked at each other across 
the table. 

‘^Begadl” said the latter; “when I die, it’s glad I am that 
I’ll leave but a hundred pounds behind me, and no family 
to fight over it, thank God !” 

Presently Julian looked at his watch. “Well, Wilfrid, 
you’ve only an hour left. You had best get away from this 
confusion and make up your mind what you will do ” 

Wilfrid cast a desperate look at him. “What in the name 
of God, can I do?” he exclaimed. 

“I cannot advise you,” answered his brother. “Naturally, 
I cannot sanction such a marriage, for love is the considera- 
tion that makes marriage legal. Any other idea of the holy 
state is terrible to me. I know the world, or rather, society 
has a different conception of the meaning of the word. How- 
ever, you are a man grown, Wilfrid, and must decide for 
yourself. It may turn out happily in the future and again, 
it may not, so I do not care to say anything to influence you 


LIFE. 


73 


either one way or the other. It seems very unfortunate to 
me, — and very precarious.” 

‘^Nonsense!” said Mrs. St. Julian, who had come up un- 
awares and had been listening. course, you will marry 

the girl, Wilfrid; you wouldn’t throw away a million dollars 
for a pack of idiotic sentimentality. The girl’s all right ; she’ll 
grow up good looking. Of course, she’s a scarecrow, now. 
Who wouldn’t be with that cropped pate and those thinned 
out arms and legs ? But she’s got fine eyes ; all her features 
are good, in fact, and her voice is pretty. She’s finely edu- 
cated, too, and rides well; we’ll take her abroad and brush 
her up. In three years, she will be a raging beauty and — 

“Mother, for God’s sake, hush, — if you don’t want to send 
me to an insane asylum!” interrupted Wilfrid in sheer 
desperation, as the lady breathlessly enumerated poor little 
Angela’s lately discovered charms. 

“Very well, do as you like. Only when you’ve been a fool 
and let a fool persuade you out of a fortune, don’t, in the 
future, reproach me with not having advised you for the 
best,” and the lady strutted away in high dudgeon. 

“If I only had a little more time,” said Wilfrid. “You 
see, I am ordered off to the front, and must leave in the 
morning, for heaven knows how long. I may not be able to 
get furlough within the specified time, or I may get in- 
jured; a thousand things might happen to prevent the cere- 
mony’s taking place. . The girl herself, if she has time to 
think it out, might decide that she doesn’t want to — 

“What would happen in that case?” interposed Julian. 

“Why, I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t know. I will 
ask Mr. Maynard.” 

“What would happen in that case?” replied that gentle- 
man in answer to Wilfrid’s question. “Why, the entire for- 
tune would revert to the young lady.” 

Then Wilfrid’s mind took a turn. He grew, all of a sud- 
den, exceedingly anxious. When the question of his fortune 
lay only with himself, he hesitated, but now that it was in 


74 


LIFE. 


another party’s power to prevent his coming into possession 
of it, he suddenly made up his mind. 

^‘Well, Julian, I think I’ll do it,” he said, finally. “Will 
you officiate ?” 

“I am sorry to refuse you,” answered the young minister, 
“but I cannot, Wilfrid, I cannot.” 

“^Very well, then; we’ll send for the village parson,” said 
Wilfrid. Then he went over and consulted with the lawyer, 
who informed the little girl of his wishes. 

She, — ^poor little soul, — in dumb obedience to her dead 
guardian’s wish, agreed. It never occurred to her that she 
could refuse. If she had been older, she would have offered 
him the half of all, for the privilege of remaining free ; but, 
as it was, she was so new and strange to this new land and 
to these strange people that she was not prepared to take 
any stand against them or their wishes and commands; so, 
still sobbing, she agreed to become Wilfrid’s wife, and the 
Lascar led her away to her Ayah, whom she had brought 
from India, and she dressed her for the occasion. 

In the meantime, a servant had been dispatched for the 
nearest minister, and the little company settled down in their 
chairs to await his arrival. 

In a very little time, Angela came down, and as Wilfrid 
had never even had a good look at his wife-to-be, he went 
over into the embrasure of the big bay window into which 
she had crept and took a seat on the divan beside her. 

Although almost sixteen years of age, Angela, by reason 
of her slight stature and childish ways, seemed a great deal 
younger, and her youthful style of dress tended to heighten 
this impression. 

When he came towards her, she drooped her eyes, and her 
eyelashes scored one point in her favor, at the start. Then, 
when he spoke and she looked up at him, he saw that his 
mother had spoken the genuine truth for once, — they were 
beautiful eyes; the peculiar tawny color which had marked 
her mother’s, and the pretty setting, with the lids drooping 
slightly at the comers, gave her a singularly sweet and wist- 


LIFE. 


75 


ful expression. Wilfrid inwardly noted the fact; also that 
her nose and month were good. Her mouth carried out the 
impression of her eyes ; but her thin, little fever-wasted face 
and figure, and the cropped head where the tawny stubble 
was just beginning to turn, precluded all chances of beauty 
for the present, at least; and Wilfrid sighed at the strange 
little ensemble. 

“Angela heard the sigh and flushed.. Her fifteen years had 
taught her more than the young man guessed, and two proud 
tears brimmed over the hot eyes and fell upon her crimson- 
ing cheeks. She felt that she hated this man at whose head 
she was flung, hated him, hated herself and more than all, 
did she hate the wretched fortune to which she was being 
sacrificed. 

She had secretly admired Wilfrid hitherto, his soldierly 
bearing and blonde good looks, had reminded her of her 
dearly loved English officers left behind at the Post in far-off 
India. She had been bright and pretty in Simla before the 
fever had come to rob her of the good things of life, and the 
officers of her father’s regiment had made much of her. 

She had ridden, danced and hunted with them, and alto- 
gether life had been very happy for her. But now all was 
changed. The terrible illness seemed to have blunted 
her faculties and her growth, alike ; her heart was crushed 
with its losses and she felt lonely and out of her 
element, among these strangers. She knew she was 
homely and odd to them, and altogether, she was at 
her worst. She had been so distressed, hitherto, with 
her griefs, that she had not minded these lesser troubles, 
but that sigh of Wilfrid’s, together with the exclamation he 
had given vent to when the lawyer read the will, had awak- 
ened in her a strange pride and resentment and the wish for 
revenge, which she did not then understand. Wilfrid took 
her hand, kindly, patronizingly. She winced and half with- 
drew it, and at this, he frowned. 

“I was simply going to say,” he said, “that I know this is 
pretty hard on you, and I am very sorry for you. I am go- 


|6 


LIFE. 


ing away within an hour or so, probably for a long time, so 
I wonH be a nuisance hanging around, you see,’^ he laughed 
slightly, — “and you can forget all about me, if you like. 
After awhile, in the future, when I come back, and we are 
both older, we will be good friends and make the best of our 
bargain, won^t we? Maybe we will find, if we are both good 
in the meantime, that it wasn’t such a bad bargain, after all.” 

“You are very kind,” replied Angela, “and I will try to do 
my part towards making a success of ^the bad bargain.’ ” 

Wilfrid looked surprised at the depth of meaning in her 
tone. It was as if an exceedingly sweet, sensible woman had 
spoken, instead of the lanky little girl in the black bob-tailed 
skirts beside him. 

“How old are you?” he asked. 

“Almost sixteen,” she answered. 

“Indeed? I had no idea of it; you don’t look it.” 

“No?” 

Just at this minute, the minister from the nearest town 
arrived. He stared in well-bred amazement at the queer 
little bride when she was designated to him as such. 

“And who is to be the groom?” he inquired. 

“I am,” said Wilfrid. 

“Oh! yes, of course. I see!” said the astonished little 
parson. He didn’t “see” at all, if one might judge from his 
expression. 

“Are you ready, sir?” inquired Wilfrid, annoyed. He was 
getting sick and tired of the whole thing and wanted to have 
it done and over with, and get out of the house. 

For some strange reason, he thought of Marjory. What a 
bride she would have made! Then followed the thought of 
Mary, whom he had befriended against his mother’s insults. 
What a picture she had been, even in her plain peasant 
clothes. It seemed that Fate was serving him a very nig- 
gardly allowance in the person of the little “scarecrow” in 
black at his side. He looked at her again and shuddered. 
Angela saw it, and that look rankled in her soul for months. 


LIFE. 


77 


Wilfrid wanted to be kind to her, so he drew her to him very 
gently, and, stooping, kissed her lightly on the forehead. 

The minister opened the prayer book and began the service 
of this strange, unnatural wedding. 

Angela’s voice was very sweet and clear as she made her 
responses and every one present was impressed with the 
solemnity with which she spoke her marriage vow: 

‘T, Angela, take thee, Wilfrid, to be my wedded husband, 
to have and to hold from this day forth, for better, for worse, 
for rich or for poor, in sickness and in health, until death 
us do part.” 

Wilfrid had forgotten all about a ring in the general 
excitement and when it came to that part of the service, he 
stopped short and looked non-plussed. He looked about him 
but no one of the company had one suitable for the occasion, 
Mrs. St. Julian’s were diamond set, Mrs. Kichard’s huge 
fingers required bands that would have swallowed three of 
the bride’s, and Julian wore only a heavy seal. 

Suddenly the little girl said something to her Ayah in 
Hindostanee. The woman left the room at once and re- 
turned almost immediately with a small gold ring which she 
offered to Wilfrid, on the palm of her black hand, with a 
deep salaam. 

^Tt was my mother’s,” explained Angela, simply. “Guardy 
sent it to her at Simla when I was born. Take it.” 

Wilfrid did as she directed, but he paused for the shadow 
of a moment before putting it on the finger she held out to 
him. There flashed across his mind a strange meaning to 
the girl’s words, it was just a thought which passed as 
quickly as it had come. He remembered his uncle’s words: 
‘T knew her mother in the old days.” Until now, he hadn’t 
recalled the idea that had occurred to him for a moment at 
that time, and now, something undefinable, — was it a look 
or some mannerism of the child at his side? — made him feel 
uncanny. 

The impression passed in a second and he placed the ring 


78 


LIFE. 


/ 

on her little hand, and the ceremony was continued without 
further interruption. 

When it was all over, Wilfrid stooped and once again 
kissed his little bride, this time on her lips. And in that 
kiss, there was born within the child two women; — one of 
them loved and the other hated. 

Ten minutes later, Wilfrid was on his way to New York. 
He was to go aboard the transport with his regiment, sailing 
for Cuba at seven o’clock next morning. After whispering 
a few kindly words and wishes to little Angela, Julian de- 
parted with his brother; and the rest of the family were to 
leave after the wedding dinner at the Castle. 

Several hours later, when all had gone, Angela crept down 
the stairs to the library and stood before the great picture 
of the Colonel which hung on the wall. 

‘‘You were a great soldier, Guardy,” she said, “and you 
won great battles, but this one will be the hardest one you 
ever fought to win, hardest for you, — and for me.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


HOME^ SWEET HOME. 

’Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, 

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home. 

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there. 

Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with, elsewhere. 

— John Howard Payne. 

Never did a Roman general returning to his native land 
in triumph from a foreign conquest receive a warmer wel- 
come than did Julian McDonald when it became noised 
around amongst the poor that he had come back in good 
health and would once again make his home amongst them 
in the very heart of the New York slums. 

It is true that there was no public festivity or display of 
any kind, no victor crowned with laurel, no procession, beat- 
ing of drums, banquets or feasts, for Julian’s triumphant 
entry was a commemoration of love. 

During his first few days in New York, every man, woman 
and child who knew him, called either at his mission or at 
his home, all anxious to hear his voice, to press his hand 
and to thank God that He had once more sent him back to 
them in safety. 

Aunt Betsy, who had acted as house-keeper for Julian 
ever since he first came to the “rectory,” as she termed his 
comfortable, but humble home, found her labor doubled, for 
there was much to try her patience at this time. She was 
a widow of some fifty years of age, an Englishwoman by 
birth, who, in spite of her twenty-five years’ residence in the 
United States, still mixed her 'V’s and W’s, aspirated words 
beginning with a vowel and forgot to sound the letter h 
where it belonged. She was a stout, good natured soul, and 


80 


LIFE. 


was beloved, for her genuine worth, by all with whom sJie 
came in contact. 

^^It’s worry nice to see the poor folk calling h-on Master 
J ulian,” she was saying to Mrs. Eliza Crowe, who had called 
to pay a friendly visit to her favorite nephew, — ^^Methodists, 
Baptists, Komanists, Presbyterians and h-infidels; all that 
h-anxious about the dear man that you would ’ave thought 
as ’ow ’e was a long lost father or brother to ’em h-all; but, 
Mrs. Crowe, it’s more than h-aggrivating to a woman o’ my 
temperament, fer the good poor is werry h-unclean and they 
do leave such a lot o’ dust an’ dirt be-ind ’em when they 
calls.” 

“It must be trying for a woman of your ‘ong-bong-point;’ 
I should imagine it would make your life very infelicitous,” 
said Mrs. Crowe, as she gently fanned herself and smiled 
with satisfaction, as she thought of her superiority in the 
use of words. 

But Aunt Betsy was used to Mrs. Crowe’s idiosyncrasies, 
and not being desirous of displaying her ignorance, simply 
looked at her friend and added, “It does.” 

“It would drive me phrenetic,” said Mrs. Crowe. 

“It werry nearly does me,” sighed Aunt Betsey. She did 
not know what the other woman was talking about, but was 
determined not to be outdone. 

“And where is Julian?” questioned Mrs. Crowe. 

“A wisiting some werry poor people who is down with the 
fever.” 

“Scarlatinous?” asked Mrs. Crowe, with a shudder. 

“I think as ’ow it is,” replied Aunt Betsy, trying to look 
wise. 

“And Mary St. John?” 

“Oh, she’s h-always with ’im, bless ’er ’earti No better 
girl nor ’er, ever came to this rectory since I’ve been h-in it, 
Mrs. Crowe. She likes to ’elp the sick ’uns, so she says.” 

“But the fact of Julian’s permitting her is so impolitic,” 
asserted Mrs. Crowe. 

“Well, you know Mr. Julian never did go much on poli- 


LIFE. 


81 


tics,” replied Aunt Betsy. “But what politics ’as got to do 
with them two a wisiting the sick, for the. life of me, I 
can’t see. Why, I’ve of’en ’eard Mr. Julian remark that ’e 
couldn’t tell the difference atween a republican an’ a dimi- 
krat to save his soul. You won’t find ’im in politics, now I 
tell you!” 

“What I said was, that it was impolitic on Julian’s part 
to take Mary where there was danger from an infectious 
disease,” said Mrs. Crowe. The desired moment had arrived 
when she had a chance to display her superiority of her 
knowledge, and she added, “Impolitic, my dear Aunt Betsy, 
means, — not wise.” 

“Oh!” grunted Aunt Betsy. She had been caught nap- 
ping, but a smile spread over her face, as she turned to her 
friend and asked gently, “H-Eliza, do you know what a 
Zoocyst is?” 

“No,” came the reluctant answer. 

“Well, my dear Mrs. Crowe,” she explained, as she rubbed 
her hands and chuckled, “a Zoocyst is a cyst, formed by the 
various Protozoans and Protophytes, whose contents break 
h-up into many germinal granules or spores.” 

“Good heavens! Where did you learn that?” asked Mrs. 
Crowe, in amazement. 

“H-in the dictionary, H-Eliza. I’ve been learnin’ it for 
h’eight days, so as to spring it on ye the first time you used 
your h-orful words on me. I thought ’twould par-e-lize ye.” 

And it had. Mrs. Crowe’s voluble tongue was silent. 

The good woman possessed but two bad qualities ; personal 
vanity and an ugly temper. Fortunately, the latter seldom 
displayed itself, unless the former had received an irritating 
wound. 

An unexpected set back from Aunt Betsy was more than 
she could put up with; the dimples disappeared from her 
cheeks, her brow became furrowed with deep wrinkles, her 
eyes shone with angry fire, and there was every evidence of a 
coming storm, when, fortunately, the door opened and Julian 
entered, followed by Mary. 


82 


LIFE. 


The angry look was gone in an instant and Mrs. Growers 
arms were around Julian’s neck. 

^^Ah! my incomparable nephew!” she cried. ‘‘The sight of 
your dear face suffices to melt me into a state of deli- 
quescence. And this is ‘Mary ?” she continued, as she turned 
to that young lady and gave her a hearty kiss. “Intuitively, 
I feel we shall love each other dear, even if we are not at all 
coetaneous.” 

“What’s that?” questioned Aunt Betsy. 

“Of the same age,” replied Mrs. Crowe, with an air of 
superiority. 

“You will have to pardon Aunt Betsy,” she continued, 
turning to Mary, “she has not had the advantage of an aca- 
demic education as we have, and it therefore, becomes ob- 
ligatory at times, on my part, to resort to a little explicita- 
tion as to the meaning of my words.” 

“Oh, I am not well educated, either,” said Mary, simply. 

“Dear me! How deleterious!” sighed Mrs. Crowe. “Then 
you will not be diacritical in your conversation with her, 
will you ?” 

“No,” answered Mary, her large eyes gazing in wonder- 
ment at the elder lady. 

“And you will be spared all chances of irascibility. Dear 
me! That will be so nice!” simpered Mrs. Crowe. “You 
know it is an assuetude of mine to indulge in the higher 
forms of speech, not that I wish to be mimetic of more clas- 
sic individuals than myself, but I really cannot help it.” 

Mary knew no more what she meant than did Aunt 
Betsy. She was a sensitive creature and a pained expression 
crossed her face, as if she had become impressed with her 
own lack of education and the knowledge of her littleness. 

Julian, who had been an amused and silent listener, was 
quick to notice the embarrassment of his ward, and came to 
her relief. 

“My dear Aunt,” he said, “we are all common people here; 
ambiguous words have no place in our homely conversation 
and if you will stop puzzling your brain to find words which 


LIFE. 


83 


to us are meaningless, you will confer a great favor on us 
all.” 

Mary looked pleased, and Aunt Betsy showed by her 
smiling countenance that she was more than highly elated. 

Mrs. Crowe was crestfallen; she felt chagrined, but the 
rebuke administered by her favorite nephew had been so 
gently worded that it was impossible for her either to show 
annoyance or to feel resentment. 

“Where is Uncle Dick?” asked Julian, anxious to relieve 
the tension and change the conversation. 

“Gone to Washington to perfect his patent on a new and 
marvellous invention,” replied Mrs. Crowe. 

“And what is it, this time?” questioned her nephew, smil- 
ingly. 

“Oh, the greatest of all, so he says,” replied his Aunt. “It 
is an electrical contrivance, guaranteed to give heat at one- 
tenth of the present price of coal. It will not only make 
his fortune, but also prove a benificent boon to suffering 
humanity.” 

“Well, you know Uncle has built a great many ‘castles in 
the air’ with his previous inventions,” suggested Julian. 

“Yes, and although they have all proven failures, ‘Nil 
desperandum’ is still the dear man’s motto, for he is a regu- 
lar paradigm of patience,” replied his aunt. 

Aunt Betsy fidgetted, and Mary’s eyes were again turned 
upon Mrs. Crowe in silent wonderment. 

“ ‘Nil desperandum,’ are two Latin words, which mean 
‘never despair;’ and a ‘paradigm’ means a model,” explained 
Julian, looking at Mary and Aunt Betsy. 

“Dear me, I might have said that,” remarked his aunt, 
without the least tone of annoyance. 

“Yes, and they would have understood you,” quietly sug- 
gested Julian. “Plain, ordinary words are by far the best 
vehicles for conversation between such people as you will 
find in my simple home.” Again, deftly turning the conver- 
sation, ho looked at his watch and addressing Aunt Betsy, 
he said: “It is six o’clock and time for supper.” 


84 


LIFE. 


long the days is a-gettin’ and my forgetfulness 
makes me mindful that I’m growing h-old,” sighed Aunt 
Betsy, as she left the room to prepare the evening meal. 

^^‘Tempus fugit,’” said Mrs. Crowe, but a warning look 
from her nephew reminded her that she was again wander- 
ing into forbidden paths, and she looked guiltily silly and 
was silent. 

The front door-bell rang; Julian left the room, opened the 
street door and admitted the Major. 

^‘Hello! old chap! Never was so pleased to shake a hale 
and hearty man by the hand as I am you,” he said as he 
grasped Julian’s right hand in his own and shook it until 
it pained. 

‘Move! You are looking well; the color has returned to 
your cheeks, the brightness has come back to your eyes, and 
you are looking as you did in llie good old college days at 
Columbia. Say, you don’t know how glad I am!” and he 
wrung Julian’s hand again until he winced. 

“Yes, but,—” 

“Oh ! I forgot !” apologetically interrupted the Major, re- 
leasing Julian’s hand. “I was still thinking you were the 
quarter-hack on the old football eleven. Say, do you remem- 
ber when we cleaned Cornell, Pennsylvania and Princeton, 
all in the same month? I tell you those days were worth 
living!” And again forgetting himself, he slapped Julian 
heartily on the back. “Old chap, it’s good for sore eyes to 
see you looking so well. I’ve been trying hard for three days 
to run over here and shake your honest hand, but they keep 
me so busy on the paper, that I have not had a single mo- 
ment to spare. Why, I have not been to bed for two nights.” 

“Is not that somewhat wearing?” questioned the minister. 

“Yes; a trifle,” answered his friend, “but you know I’m 
tough, and it would take more than a New York daily to 
kill your old friend, Harold Morton.” 

Julian opened the door of the parlor and motioned the 
Major to precede him into the room. 

“My ward, Miss Mary St. John, my friend, Mr. Harold 


LIFE. 


85 


Morton,” said Julian, by way of introduction, as he closed 
the door behind him. “My aunt, Mrs. Crowe, you already 
know.” 

“Oh, yes! I have often been honored by meeting the il- 
lustrious Major,” said the elder of the two ladies, as she rose 
and took his proffered hand. 

“Illustrious fiddle-stick!” laughed that gentleman, as he 
crossed to Mary and respectfully took that shy young lady 
by the hand. “You must excuse me. Miss St. John,” he said 
to her, “I am a noisy, rough-and-ready sort of a fellow, a 
staunch old friend of Julian’s and my exuberant spirits 
sometimes get the best of me. If you find me irrepressibly 
noisy, remember that empty vessels make the most sound 
and like those utensils, I am positively harmless.” 

“I am sure I shall like you,” said Mary, naively, and she 
curtsied to the Major with such sweet simplicity that a feel- 
ing of great kindness and respect for her was at once kindled 
within him. 

“That is right,” he replied. “I shall be more than pleased 
to be numbered amongst your friends.” Then, turning to 
Mrs. Crowe, he asked, “Where is the old he-blackbird ?” 

“Do you refer to Mr. Crowe?” asked that lady, severely. 

“Certainly. ^He-blackbird,’ I always term him,” laughed 
the Major, heartily. 

There was a peculiarity about the man that permitted him 
to say things which from other lips would have given well- 
merited offense, yet coming from the Major, could only be 
looked upon in the light of a joke. He was one of those rare 
specimens with whom it was impossible to take umbrage at 
anything said or done. 

“He went to Washington this morning, but I expect him 
here shortly to take the old ^she-bird’ home,” replied Mrs. 
Crowe. 

“Good, then I shall see him,” laughed the Major. “Julian, 
Aunt Betsy’s cooking has such a delightful odor that I shall 
remain to supper,” he continued. 

“Then I had better inform that worthy personage to get 


86 


LIFE. 


ready an extra plate,” said Julian, as he rose and left the 
room. 

^^Nothing extra for me,” shouted the Major through the 
half-open door. “If I get anything but pot-luck. I’ll never 
come again.” 

Again turning to Mrs. Crowe, he asked: “How are the 
little Crowes?” 

“Safe in their nest,” she answered, laughing. 

“Good,” he replied and joined heartily in her merriment. 

“You are a soldier. How comes it that you are not at the 
front?” questioned Mary, when the laughter had subsided. 

“I, a soldier? Who ever told you that?” questioned Mr. 
Morton. 

“They call you the ‘Major,’ do they not?” asked Mary. 

“A mere nomenclature, child,” put in Mrs. Crowe. 

The Major looked at her and smiled. 

“My friends all tell me that I am possessed of more bound- 
less American nerve than any other man they have ever 
met,” he said, addressing himself to Mary, “but when it 
comes to being a soldier. Miss St. John, I must say that my 
courage would never permit me to fight. I am a most arrant 
coward, and should run at the first shot, I feel certain. I 
have an excellent pair of lower limbs, and would rather run 
than take a licking any day. Whatever I am now, or may 
be in the future, has been and will be dependent entirely 
upon what my friends term ‘nerve,’ but what I call ‘making 
the best of my surroundings and of the conditions in which 
I am placed.’ ” 

“Will you not tell me more of yourself? I am deeply in- 
terested in you,” said Mary, sincerely. 

“I thank you for the compliment, but I fear your interest 
will cease when you know me better,” he said. “You see, I 
have had a strangely varied and somewhat checkered career. 
At school, they always said I was a dunce; at college, they 
termed me an ignoramus; and later in life, when Julian and 
I went in for law, he passed his examinations in flying colors 
and your humble servant was turned down as a fool.” 


LIFE. 


87 


‘Tlease not to believe him, Mary, for he is one of the best 
fellows in the world,’’ said Julian, as he re-entered the room. 

^‘Now, don’t interrupt,” said the Major, am giving Miss 
St. John a detailed account of my life’s adventures.” Then, 
turning to her, he continued: “Finding myself a failure at 
law, I went in for literature, but no one would buy my 
books ; then I wrote plays, but no one would read them ; then 
I opened a dancing school and was fairly successful, but 
alas ! I aspired for higher art and I became an actor. That 
is, I thought I was one, until I awoke from my dream and 
found myself stranded in a little town in California. The 
part I had been playing while upon the stage was a Major, 
and the name, although unsought and undesired, has re- 
mained with me ever since. 

“After my Thespian career, I became a cook in a small 
restaurant in that western town, but the Chinamen have 
control of that branch of trade on the Pacific Coast and they 
soon drove me out of business. I next became the bass 
drummer of a brass band with a traveling medicine com- 
pany, but the leader said my time was abominable and dis- 
charged me. I then drifted into politics and managed to 
obtain enough money to pay my railroad fare back to New 
York, where Julian secured for me, a position on one of the 
greatest of American newspapers and where I seem to have 
struck my proper gait, at last.” 

“And where you have earned for yourself well merited 
success,” said Julian. Then turning to Mary, he added; 
“He is counted among the best of newspaper writers in this 
city, to-day, and if the Spanish war lasts, it would not sur- 
prise me to hear of his being sent out as a war correspondent, 
where he would soon be heard from as a journalist, and would 
earn for himself a substantial purse.” 

“I would rather remain here,” protested the Major. “I don’t 
want money. You know what you teach your parishioners 
about the rich man, the camel and the eye of a needle? 
Well, I prefer to die poor, and I think I am safe, for money 
burns in my pocket if I try to keep it, and even if I could 


88 


LIFE. 


take it with me to the next world, I am sure it would melt.” 

The supper bell sounded and Julian led the way into the 
dining room. 

********* 

Julian sat at the head of the table, with Mary, as was 
her custom, on his right; Mrs. Crowe sat to the left of 
Julian, with an empty seat next to her awaiting the arrival 
of her spouse; Aunt Betsy took her usual seat at the foot 
of the table; the Major sat to the left of her and to the 
right of Mary. St. John. 

Julian had barely finished asking the blessing on the meal 
when the front door bell rang loudly. 

‘^Crowe!” ejaculated Eliza. 

“Carrion?” questioned the Major, dryly. 

“I should say not,” replied Eliza, sharply. 

“He will be just in time for supper,” said J ulian. 

Aunt Betsy, who had risen from the table and gone to 
the front door, now returned to the dining room, a very 
much annoyed and somewhat sour expression upon her 
generally pleasant face. 

“It^s Tm!” she said. 

“Mr. Crowe?” asked Eliza. 

“Yes; Tm, a woman, a cripple and a h-infant, and ^e 
h-actually ^ad the h-ordacity to ask ’em h-all to supper!” 

“Quite right,” responded Julian. “We shall have quite a 
pleasant little party.” 

• “Yes, but where’s the wittles to come from? They h-ain’t 
in the ’ouse,” said Aunt Betsy, and her slipper began to 
beat a pit-a-pat upon the floor and her head was thrown back 
until her well-rounded chin assumed a thinness and stood 
out from her neck at an angle of at least seventy-five de- 
grees. 

“Now, don’t let trifles trouble you.” It was the Major 
who spoke, and he rose from his seat, adding, ‘T will attend 
to everything.” 

He opened the door leading into the hallway. Loud 


LIFE. 


89 


voices were heard and a youthful voice cried out : “Dat’s him, 
mudder; dat’s him now I” 

The Major stepped back into the dining room, closing the 
door. 

“Julian, old boy,” he cried, “get me out of the house as 
quickly as possible.” 

“Why, what is the matter?” asked his friend. 

“Nothing serious. A little debt! Of course, Julian, you 
do not know what it is to run away from a creditor, but I do.” 

“Allow me to liquidate it for you and you can pay me at 
your leisure,” suggested Julian. 

“Not for the world, old chap!” replied the Major. 

A gentle knock was heard at the door, the handle of which 
the Major still grasped tightly. 

“Busily engaged; will be through in a few moments,” he 
called to those upon the outside; then, turning to Julian, he 
asked in positive alarm, “Have you no other exit from this 
house except through the front doorway?” 

“Yes, you can go through the area,” replied the minister. 

“Capital!” cried the Major, grasping Aunt Betsy by the 
arm. “Conduct me to the area,” he said to her, as he led 
her rapidly to the stairs leading into the basement, down 
which they disappeared together. ' 

The door leading into the hallway opened and Kichard 
Crowe, followed by Mrs. Riley, holding her baby in her arms, 
and in her turn followed by little Ned, entered the dining 
room. 

The crippled boy looked anxiously at the three occupants of 
the room and a look of keen disappointment crossed his wan 
face. 

“Mudder, he ain’t here; he’s slipped away from me, agin,” 
he said. 

“Who?” questioned Julian. 

“Why, the big, tall gent, wid de long black hair. He 
saved me life, he did, and he won’t even give me der chance 
ter tank him.” 


90 


LlFlE. 


saved your life?” asked Mary, as she advanced to- 
wards Ned, and stroked his long flaxen curls. 

‘‘Dat’s what he did. Miss. He’s a regular corker, you’se 
hear me. When I fell in de Nort’ River, de odder day, he 
jumped in an’ fished me out, an’ but fer him, I wouldn’t be 
here, now. Where did he go ter?” asked the boy, anxiously. 

‘‘He went out through the cellar so as to avoid you,” re- 
plied Julian. 

“Well, dat’s doggone mean of him,” said the cripple. “He 
hadn’t orter slip away from me like dat.” 

“And he called it slipping away from a creditor,” said 
Mary, softly. 

“I regret so much that he has gone without giving me a 
chance to thank him,” said Mrs. Riley. “He has indeed 
been a good angel, not only to my boy, but to me and to the 
baby as well.” And then she related to Julian and Mary, the 
story of the money that had been collected on the pier, which 
amounted to nearly seven hundred dollars. It was a large 
sum in the poor widow’s eyes and had proven a great boon 
to herself and children. 

Mr. and Mrs. Crowe had been conversing together aside 
from the others, he explaining to her the merits of the 
patent he had secured that day and assuring her that this 
time he would surely make his fortune and that failure was 
impossible. 

Loud voices were heard in the kitchen below. 

“Go away. I tell you nothing of the kind was h-ordered.” 

“ ’Deed ’twas, honey ; done ordered and paid f o’, too, — and 
Ephraim, Nebekanezzer and I has toted it over fo’ de paw- 
sun’s supper. We’se he-ah and he-ah, we’se a-gwine to lebe 
it. You hyar me?” 

“I tell you, it’s a h-error.” 

“What you call dat, honey ?” 

“A h-error, — a mistake.” 

“Dar ain’t no mistook ’bout it. Am dar Ephraim?” 

“No, maw.” 


LIFE. 


91 


The last words were accompanied by a boy^s hacking and 
consumptive cough. 

‘‘Quit yo’ barking, Ephraim boy, or yo’ll disturb de paw- 
sun’s company.” 

“Ephraim ain’t coughin’ ’cause he wants to, maw, — ” 

“Now, yo’ Nebekanezzer I Don’t you talk back to your 
mammy dat bred an’ raised ye, — 

“What’s the matter down there?” asked Julian, as he 
stepped to the head of the stairway. 

“Nothin’s de matter, Pawsun Julian. It’s me, ole Aunt 
Jemima, — ^what sells hot cawn at de corner. Don’t yo’ know 
me? I used to go to yo’ church regular, till yo’ went to 
Europe; den I quit, — ^’cause de new pawsun wasn’t half as 
good as you.” 

“What do you want?” questioned the minister. 

“I’se got hot cawn, baked tatauses, crabs an’ fried chicken 
fo’ yo’, sah. A big tall gemman wid long black curly har, 
bought ’em and tole me to tote ’em up hyar to yo’, sah.” 

“Well, well! That must have been the Major,” said 
J ulian. 

“Yes, sah, dat’s him, sah! De Major, he called hisself 
an’ he gib me a note to gib yo’ too, sah.” 

“Well, come up and bring your note, corn, potatoes, crabs 
and chicken along with you,” laughed Julian, good-naturedly. 

“T’ank yo’, sah. And yo’, Ephraim an’ Nebekanezzar, yo’ 
bofe go afore me, an’ be mighty ’ticular dat yo’ don’t stumble 
wid dem ar baskets.” 

And Aunt Jemima, preceded by her two sons, began to 
climb the stairs leading from the kitchen to the dining room. 

“Nebekanezzar, you spade footed hound! I done tole yo’ 
to be keerful ob dat cawn,” cried the old woman, as the tal- 
ler of the two boys tripped his foot and was in imminent 
peril of dropping the basket which was balanced on top of 
his woolly head. “Ephraim, take off yo’ hat! I done teached 
ye better manners dan dat fo’ yo’ to follow when yo’ went 
into de presence ob de white folks, — ’deed I did, child.” 

And puffing and blowing, the old mammy, at last, reached 


92 


LIFE. 


the top. She was followed by Aunt Betsy, who felt much 
annoyed to think that any eatables, other than those cooked 
by herself, should find tfieir way to the minister’s table. 

“I clar’ to goodness, I’se glad to see yo’ to home, again, 
Pawsun McDonald, an’ I’se gwine to bring Nebekanezzar an’ 
Ephraim to heah yo’ preach next Sunday,” said the old 
woman, as she placed her basket on the floor. ^^Lor’ a’ 
Massy! dat tabernacle o’ yours, won’t be big enough to hold 
de people. Dat last preacher wan’t no good; all he done 
was talk, talk an’ say nuffin’.” 

Assisted by the two boys, she began to place the contents 
of the two baskets on the table. 

^^You are quite sure that all these things were intended for 
us?” questioned Julian. 

“’Course I is, pawsun,” she replied. “’Sides hyar’s de 
gemman’s note an’ I reckon dat’ll put all yo’ doubts ter sleep 
if yo’ has any.” 

She handed the note to Julian, who read it and then 
passed it over to Mary. 

, It was written on a sheet torn from a reporter’s pad and 
read as follows: 

“I very much doubt your ability to feed so many people with five 
loaves and two small fishes, therefore, old fellow, permit me to add to 
your store. The cripple boy may tell you that I saved his life. Do 
not believe him ; fact is, I fell into the water at the same time he did, 
and when he saw me swimming back to safety, somehow or other, he 
managed to catch hold of my clothes, and the good people on the 
dock fished us both out together. I dislike posing as a hero when 
there is no honor due me. You must therefore pardon my absence. 

“Yours as of old, 

“Habold.” 


“What a noble man!” thought Mary. 

She was already beginning to look ui)on life through new 
eyes and her future seemed filled with joy. The homely 
faces of the poor people who surrounded Julian’s daily toils, 
were no longer abhorrent, but full of charm to her; to work 
with him for their happiness, to do good, where good was 
so much needed, to be more like Julian and the friends he 


LIFE. 


93 


loved, was fast becoming the chief object of her existence, 
and the thought of its accomplishment brought to her such 
peace as she had never known. 

She glanced around the room. Mr. and Mrs. Crowe were 
talking to Mrs. Riley and her crippled son, upon terms of the 
most intimate acquaintance, he even going so far as to tell 
them how many thousands of dollars he could make if he 
only had a paltry few hundreds for new patterns and a few 
necessary changes before he could place his wonderful in- 
vention before the world. Julian was talking to Aunt 
Jemima and her sons. They were odd looking human beings 
to Mary, who, in far off England, had never seen more than 
two or three colored people during the seventeen years of her 
existence. The boys especially seemed to fascinate her. 
They were so strange, with their ebony skin, their flat noses, 
thick lips, white teeth and great china eyes, — and Ephraim, 
with the consumptive cough, which he struggled so hard to 
hide whenever his mammy looked at him reprovingly, filled 
her heart with pity and compassion. 

‘^You must take care of that boy, auntie, or you’ll lose 
him,” said Julian. “I shall have Doctor Smith call and see 
what can be done for him.” 

‘‘Why, pawsun, it ain’t nuffin’ more dan a cold,” said the 
old woman. “De libber lipped brat caught it last winter 
’cause he ’sisted upon runnin’ round in de snow an’ de wet 
widout any shoes an’ stockings, — so ye see, sah, he ain’t got 
nuffin’ but what’s a-comin’ to him fo’ his contrariness.” 

“You wouldn’t like to have him taken away from you, 
would you?” asked Julian, reprovingly. 

“Taken away?” — 

The old woman’s eyes extended until they seemed to Mary 
to be as large as saucers. She drew little Ephraim close to 
her side and hugged him warmly. 

“Ye don’t mean, — would I like to hab him die, — do ye, 
pawsun ?” 

“Yes,” answered Julian, seriously, “even that might hap- 
pen unless great care be given him.” 


94 


LIFE. 


Great tears came into the old woman’s eyes ; she knelt and 
drew the boy to her breast and threw her arms around his 
little black neck. 

^‘Did ye hyah dat, boy?” she sobbed. “Mammy may lose 
her lir Ephraim, ’cause he wouldn’t listen to her las’ winter. 
But, Mr. Pawsun, yo’ll send de doctor to-morrow mawnin’, 
wo-won’t yo’, so as to try and sabe him ?” she pleaded. “Eben 
if I is black, I lubs my lil’ ones, an’ if eder one ob dem was 
to be taken ’way from me, I’se sure dat Pd die, too!” And 
still hugging little Ephraim, she began to rock herself to 
and fro, and she cried and moaned as if her heart would 
break. 

The scene was a deeply affecting one, and Mary began to 
think of her own mother across the sea, who had deserted 
her when she was young, and left her father for another 
man. Her mother had been surrounded with comfort, 
friendship and esteem, yet she was heartless, unnatural, 
cruel and unkind, while the plain old colored woman, devoid 
of education and refinement, poor, friendless and fighting 
life’s battle all alone in an effort to support herself and chil- 
dren, loved this little consumptive boy so well that she felt 
if he were taken away from her she too would die. 

That night after the supper was over and the company had 
gone, when Mary was alone in her own little bed room, she 
heard Julian in his study, playing upon the organ and 
singing: 

“ ’Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, 

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home. 

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, 

Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere. 

Home, home, sweet home ! 

There’s no place like home !” 

And home had grown very dear to Julian, for Mary was 
there. And he sat alone until far into the night, dreaming 
bright pictures of the future, in which he imagined Mary 
sharing his every happiness and every joy. She had grown 
very dear to him during their short acquaintance and to him- 


LIFE. 


95 


self, he called her, — “his angel, sent down from heaven to 
gladden his solitary life.” 

He had promised to guard, protect and honor her as if she 
were his own and secretly, he longed for the time to come 
when he could make her so. 

And he fell asleep in his great arm chair, until Aunt 
Betsy came into the room to inform him that it was time 
for him to go to bed, and as she awakened him, she heard 
him murmur, “Mary, — ^my own, — my — Mary I” 


CHAPTER X. 


A SUNDAY SCHOOL PICNIC IN CENTRAL PARK. 

“AH thoughts, all passions, all delights, 

What ever stirs this mortal frame. 

All are but ministers of Love, 

And feed his sacred flame.” 

— Coleridge. 

On the morning of the second day of July, the sun rose 
brilliantly in the heavens in an atmosphere of gold. 

All of New York was ringing with the news of the victory 
of the previous day, when the United States troops had at- 
tacked and captured San Juan. 

Bands played, steam whistles shrieked, the people shouted 
with glee, flags flew from every pole, from the windows and 
housetops and from the masts of the ships on the rivers and 
in the bay. It was a day of general rejoicing. 

The morning had been anxiously looked forward to for 
many weeks by the children of the parish over which Julian 
presided; not that a national victory had been expected, but 
because the long talked of Mission Sunday School picnic had 
been scheduled for that day. 

Julian rose early. He thanked his Maker for the victory 
granted to the soldiers of his native land; he felt proud to 
know that his brother Wilfrid had been in that valiant 
charge; he hoped that he was safe, and prayed that if 
wounded, he might speedily be restored to health and Anally 
returned to his home in safety when the war was ended. 

Breakfast over, he found the three wagons which had been 
hired to carry the children to the park, standing in waiting 
outside the Mission Church door. Many of the youngsters 
were there before him, some already in the wagons, others 
standing upon the sidewalk or church steps, and all busily 


LIFE. 


97 


engaged in a hubbub of excitement, for it was an event of 
more than ordinary importance in their little lives. 

A loud cheer arose for the minister, as, with smiling face, 
he came towards them; this was followed by another rousing 
hurah for Mary, who arrived soon afterwards. All knew and 
loved Mary, for even during the short time she had been in 
their midst, she had won her way into their hearts, and was 
known amongst them as ^Hhe little angel of the Mission,’^ a 
title she had earned for the good work she had done. 

^‘And now,” said Julian, “let us give a great loud cheer 
for the United States and for our soldiers who are fighting 
our battles in foreign lands.” 

And the childrens^ voices shouted until their little owners’ 
throats were sore. 

Bunting of stars and stripes was procured from a neigh- 
boring store, the wagons were decorated; red, white and blue 
caps were provided for both boys and girls, and a small Am- 
erican flag was given to each; the luncheon was safely and 
properly stored away, Julian and Mary took charge of the 
first wagon, Mr. and Mrs. Crowe superintended the second, 
and William Green, the sexton, with Aunt Betsy and Mrs. 
Riley, looked after the third; and a happier or more noisy 
procession never was seen than this, as it started northwards 
toward Central Park. 

Up the Bowery, through Union Square, up Broadway, past 
Madison Square and then up fashionable Fifth avenue, past 
the mansions of the millionaires, they went, shouting, yel- 
ling, and enjoying life, as few but American children can. 

As Julian passed his mother’s handsome residence, he 
noticed that the blinds were still down, the occupants of the 
house were not yet astir. 

Seventy-ninth street was reached at last, and here, the 
party alighted, entered the park and prepared for the real 
pleasures of the day. 

An attractive spot was chosen where there was a wide,- 
open space for the children, and shady trees for the older 
4 


98 


LIFE. 


folks. The boys started in to play leap frog, pump-pump- 
peel-away, crack the whip, hop scotch and mumble-the-peg, 
while the girls indulged in less strenuous games, such as 
pitching the bean bag, London Bridge, drop the handker- 
chief and ring-around-the-roses. Aunt Betsy, Mrs. Crowe 
and Aunt Jemima superintended the care of the lunch bas- 
kets, and laid their plans for the eventful noon-day meal, 
while Julian, Mary and Kichard Crowe romped and played 
with the little ones upon the green. 

“What is that?’’ asked Mary, as she pointed to the great 
stone wall of the reservoir, which had been attracting her 
attention. 

“That is where the city keeps its supply of water,” replied 
Julian, “the old Croton reservoir. It was built some sixty 
years ago.” 

“And that?” she asked, pointing to a great granite shaft, 
which stood high in the air, near the Metropolitan Art build- 
ing. 

“That is Cleopatra’s needle,” he replied. “History says 
it was taken from Heliopolis to Alexandria nearly twenty 
centuries ago. I remember very well when they brought it 
to New York and erected it there, although I was only a 
small boy at the time.” 

“I should like so much to go and see it, if I may,” she 
said. 

“And if Uncle Dick will look after the children, I shall 
be only too pleased to accompany you and explain all that I 
know of its wonderful history; some of the hieroglyphs on 
the face of it represent the names of Thotmes the Third and 
Rameses the Second, who reigned in the fourteenth and six- 
teenth centuries before Christ.” 

“Oh, Uncle Dick knows how ignorant I am, and in order 
that you may impart some of your knowledge to me, I am 
sure he will excuse me,” she said, as she smiled at Mr. Crowe 
and took Julian’s arm, and began to lead him in the direc- 
tion of the obelisk. 

The slight pressure of her little hand upon Julian’s arm 


LIFE. 


99 


was delightfully sweet to him, and as they walked on through 
the paths shaded by the foliage of ash, elm, cedars and oaks, 
catching the fragrance of the balsam fir and the new mown 
grass, listening to the carroling of the robins and the merry 
laughter of the children they were leaving behind, it seemed 
to him as if he had never been half so happy. 

For some time he did not speak. His heart was too full 
for his lips to find utterance to the words he would have 
spoken. He was gifted as a preacher, had been considered 
an orator at the bar and was never at a loss for powers of 
conversation with any other human being. He wanted to 
tell Mary the story of his great, undying love and endless 
passion, he longed to press her to his breast and ask her to 
be his through life until death, and yet he could not. 

^‘Of what are you thinking?” she asked, as they reached 
the steps to the elevation upon which stands the monument 
of antiquity. 

“Of you,” he answered, coloring slightly. 

“Of me?” 

“Yes, and of your future.” 

“Oh, I expect I shall be a great bore to you before long,” 
she replied, and her great blue eyes appeared to him as if 
they were trying to read the secrets of his soul. 

“You could never bore me, Mary,” he said. “To me, you 
are the sweetest and dearest woman I have ever met.” 

The looked for time seemed to have come, at last. He 
could have told his story then, but alas! for the perversity 
of fate ! They had arrived at a spot where nearly a hundred 
people had congregated; there was not a vacant seat to be 
had and not a quiet path to which he could lead her without 
turning backward. 

And who could tell the story of his love in a public place, 
with a hundred pair of eyes upon them? Could anyone? 

Julian turned the conversation immediately; he told Mary 
of the sixty-seven feet height of the obelisk from its base to 
its apex, he explained how the four great bronze crabs sup- 
porting it were copies of the Egyptian originals, and wan- 


LofC. 


100 


LIFE. 


dered off into ancient history until he was surrounded by a 
curious, gaping crowd, to whom his knowledge had made 
him an object of intense curiosity. 

“Shall we go through the museum?” asked Mary, as they 
moved away. 

“We could not begin to see its wonders in a day, we must 
devote some other time to that, besides we must return to 
the little ones,” replied Julian, as they turned to retrace 
their steps in the direction from which they had come. 

Again his heart beat rapidly; again he resolved to tell the 
story of his love, hut once more fate was against him, for 
they met pedestrians at every turn of the paths they 
traversed. 

At the southeast corner of the Croton reservoir, they stop- ' 
ped and sat upon the stone wall surrounding it, which at that 
point is very low. A grassy roadway stood between them 
and the picket fence of about two and a half feet in height ; 
beyond that was an incline of about five feet of sloping grass, 
then a few feet of masonry and then the water, smooth and 
mirror-like, reflecting the blue grey color of the sky above. 

A notice on a sign board attracted their attention: 

ALL PERSONS ARE FORBID 
CROSSING 
THESE FENCES. 

“Why are they forbid?” asked Mary. 

“Probably to keep refuse from being thrown into the 
water which we drink and, possibly, to keep out suicides,” 
answered her companion. 

“Death by drowning must be horrible,” she replied, shud- 
dering. “Do you suppose many people have ended their lives 
here?” 

“I think so. But here comes the watchman, we will ask 
him.” 

A white-haired, clean-shaven man approached them from 
the pathway inside the wall. He wore a faded blue suit 


LIFE. 


101 


with silver buttons; a cap with letters on it, — D. P. W. (De- 
partment of Public Works), in front, above the peak. In 
his left hand, he carried a buck-horn handled cane and at 
his right side hung an empty sleeve, which mutely told his 
story; — he was a veteran of the Civil War. 

“How long have you been watchman, here?” asked Julian. 

“Thirty-one years, sir,” said the man. 

“Thirty-one years walking around that path?” 

“Yes, sir; and I suppose I’ll keep on walking it until I 
die.” 

“Have there been many suicides here?” 

“Quite a number in my time, but they have kind of let up 
on this spot of late and those who have been anxious to try 
death by drowning, have sought the rivers or the lake. It is 
quite accommodating of them, when you come to think how 
distasteful it is to know that you’ve got to drink the water 
in which the cadavers have been lying.” 

“Well, it is not a pleasant thought.” 

“Do they have watchmen here at night?” asked Mary. 

“No, Miss.” 

“I should think they would,” she said. “Careful watch- 
men mi^ht check or prevent these suicides.” 

“You can never do that. Miss,” replied the man. “Why, 
some years ago they passed a law making suicide punishable 
with imprisonment,” he continued with a dry smile, “but 
it didn’t do no good. If a man makes up his mind he wants 
to die, he’s going to accomplish it some way, and if the laws 
of God won’t stop him, it is certain that man’s laws can’t — 
besides, what would he care after he was dead, if they did 
lock his body up in prison? He couldn’t feel it.” 

And he laughed, — a weird, uncanny laugh, which sent a 
thrill through Mary. 

“It is a terrible thing to think of,” she said, shuddering. 
“The great Father above gave us life. It is not ours to take 
away. It is true, that the man who ends his life in such 
a manner cannot be punished in this world, but he will 
certainly suffer for his sin in the life hereafter.” 


102 


LIFE. 


^‘Why, Miss, you speak as if only men committed suicide, — 
the majority of those who have ended their lives here have 
been women.” 

^‘What class of women?” questioned Julian. 

“Mostly the lowest,” replied the watchman. “Men gener- 
ally commit suicide on account of business reverses, or ill 
health, while the women’s reasons can generally be traced 
to loss of honor. They are of the weaker sex, and when their 
honor is gone there is not much left — poor souls.” 

Mary had risen and was standing a few feet away from 
the others. Julian only could see her face; it was very pale 
and to him her expression was almost saint-like. 

“Some of them, I think, are better off dead then living,” 
continued the man addressing J ulian. “I see by your clothes, 
sir, that you are a minister and, perhaps, you will hardly 
agree with me. One case I shall not forget. It was nine 
years ago this summer. I was standing half way between 
this spot and the flood gate, when I saw a woman climb over 
the wall right where you are standing now. She carried an 
infant in her arms, I ran to stop her, but quick as a flash she 
was over the fence and slid down the embankment into the 
water. I jumped in after her, and she was sinking the third 
time when I caught her. You see, having only one arm, I 
was somewhat at a disadvantage, but I managed to get her 
out, although her baby was drowned. To my dying day, I 
shall never forget the look of horror on her face when they 
brought her to, nor the manner in which she cursed me for 
saving her life. She thought her troubles were over but 
awoke to find them doubled, for she was tried and sentenced 
to prison for life for the murder of her illegitimate child.” 

“Perhaps, she lived to repent of her sin, and thus earned 
for herself the right of a future life in Heaven,” said the 
minister. 

“If God is merciful. He will not refuse a home to the 
woman who had suffered so much that she can take her life 
on account of her fearful wrongs. If He is just. He will 
visit His wrath upon the vile miscreant, the beast of prey. 


LIFE. 


108 


who caused her downfall and then left her to bear the bur- 
den of her shame alone. I tell you, sir, man’s laws may pass 
the seducer by, but the laws of God will not.” 

^^And the man in this case, did he not come forward to help 
the girl, when he found out her peril?” said Julian. 

“No, sir, they never do,” replied the watchman. “To their 
shame be it said, the majority of our young men think it 
rare sport to wreck a maiden’s life, but if I had my way, I’d 
make the crime punishable the same as murder; for it is 
worse than murder to the innocent victim, who is compelled 
to face the penalty of her weakness alone.” 

“You are very bitter,” said the minister. 

“Yes, sir, and so would you be, if you had followed the 
case of that young girl as I did. She had no relatives, and 
as I had brought her back into the world, I took such inter- 
est in her that I almost grew to look upon her as my own 
little, helpless child.” 

His voice quivered with emotion and unconsciously his 
hand wandered to his eyes to brush away the burning tears. 
Turning from Julian so that his face could not be seen, he 
continued : 

“God help the man whose sister, daughter or friend falls 
as she did, for hell has no torture such as this world will 
furnish him when he learns — that I” 

The two men had forgotten Mary and a loud sob reminded 
them of her presence. 

“You are crying, dearest,” said Julian, as he crossed to 
her and placed his hand upon her shoulder. 

“Yes, the story of that poor woman has touched me, — it 
is so sad, Julian, — and — ^you know — my mother — ” 

She was weeping bitterly; she could say no more. 

“Come, come, you must not break down like this,” said 
Julian softly; this was to have been a day of joy and we 
had no right to indulge in such morbid tales, — you see, we 
had forgotten that we had such a sympathetic listener. Good 
morning,” he said, nodding farewell to the watchman, who 
started to resume his rounds; then turning to Mary he gave 


104 


LIFE. 


her his hand to assist her to the path below. ‘‘Come, dear- 
est,” he continued, “I will lead you from this spot and we 
will talk only of brighter things, of the glorious summer, 
of the trees, the flowers and the birds, — all Nature seems as 
if trying to be happy, and so must we be in accord.” 

He bent over her, he took her child-like face into his two 
hands and raised her head so that her beautiful blue eyes 
w^e gazing into his. 

“I do believe I can see a smile trying to creep through 
those tears already,” he said. “It is just like sunshine after 
rain.” 

She placed her arm in his and together they walked east- 
ward in the direction of the Belvedere. He could not tell 
why, and yet he imagined that she nestled closer to his side 
than usual to-day, as if asking his protection, and the 
thought filled his soul with joy. She had never appeared 
to him to be half so beautiful or as much like an angel as 
now. Sweet innocence, purity and virtue seemed stamped 
indelibly upon her features, supreme sympathy for the 
wrongs of others had manifested itself in her nature and to 
Julian she was the most perfect being that had ever lived. 

She stopped and picked some wild flowers from amongst 
a cluster that grew near the path-way. 

“How lovely they are,” she said. “What a pity it is that 
they cannot last forever I When I think how soon the flowers 
must wither, lose their fragrance and die, they remind me 
of the shortness and mockery of a human life, — the life of 
the poor woman, of whom the watchman spoke, for in- 
stance.” 

“Yes,” responded Julian, “even as those flowers, so she 
was innocent until a villain plucked her young life and after 
he had enjoyed its sweetness to the full, he carelessly threw 
it by the wayside to be trampled in the dust by others, until 
its beauty was gone and it died.” 

There was a wistful expression in her earnest face, as 
she answered faintly: 

“If my life should end like that I” 


LIFE. 


106 


^‘Wliy, Mary, child, of what are you thinking?” he asked 
tenderly. 

“Of a time when I may be alone in the great world,” she 
answered. “You know I cannot always expect to receive 
from you the protection which you give me now.” 

“Oh, yes, you can, Mary. While I have a home, the best 
part of it is yours,” he said. “Have you forgotten the prom- 
ise I gave your father?” 

“No,” she answered, “but I also realize that the little 
money which he left me is fast slipping away and that it is 
my duty to work as others do, so that I may earn the bread 
I eat.” 

“Why, do not my poor people call you Hhe little angel of 
the mission^ Mary? You do work — you toil amongst the 
weary, worn and lost ones, even as I do.” 

“Yes, but only that I may assist you, Julian,” she replied. 
“That does not make me independent of your bounty.” 

“Then you shall be enrolled in the pay-list of the Church,” 
he answered lightly. “Mary St. John, missionary, eight 
hundred per year. How will that do?” 

“It would only be another item out of your pocket,” she 
said gratefully. “I know where the alms come from which 
are so generously distributed. You may hide your goodness 
from others, but you shall not from me. Oh, no, I must 
either work or— marry.” 

“Marry,” he exclaimed and his face blanched and his 
hands trembled. 

“Yes, Mrs. Crowe said last week at the ladies^ meeting in 
the Church, that it was the duty of all young and dependent 
women to work or marry and she was looking straight at me 
when she said it,” she replied. 

“Then Mrs. Crowe is a meddlesome old lady, even if she 
is my aunt,” he said, “and I will certainly take her to task 
for putting such nonsense into my fellow missionary's foolish 
little head.” 

“You will greatly oblige me by saying nothing to her on 
the subject,” she replied. “Of course, the idea of my marry- 


106 


LIFE. 


ing is entirely out of the question for the present, for I have 
never yet seen anyone whom I would wish to call my hus- 
band.” 

‘‘No one?” he asked. 

“No one,” she replied. 

Julian had never realized before how a criminal must 
feel when his death warrant was being read to him. His 
heart seemed to freeze and cease to beat. The fondest hopes 
of his life were being shattered and his rose-hued dreams 
were fading into sad reality; but he smiled at his grief and 
his face did not betray the fierce contest that was raging 
within him. 

“I suppose it would be very wrong to marry, if I did not 
love,” said Mary, after a pause. 

“Yes,” he answered, “the state of wedlock is the holiest, 
best and brightest blessing God has given to man. It should 
not be trifled with. Never marry until you can give your 
husband all your heart, all your soul and every thought and 
fibre of your being; give him all that he exacts from you 
and it will not be your fault if your life be not all that you 
desire, but let the least measure of deceit or a shadow once 
come between you and the tie will become as a ship that is 
split in two in mid-ocean, the waves, which represent the 
troubles of human life, will beat against you until you 
drift apart in the sea of misfortune and, losing hope, you 
will drown yourself in the vortex of misery and despair.” 

“How fearfully you talk,” said Mary. 

“But earnestly and for your good,” he answered. 

“Well, Julian, I promise you that the man I marry shall 
have every thought of my life and that I will live only in 
the sunshine of his existence,” she said; then slowly and 
thoughtfully continued: “and if he should deceive me ” 

“Then he shall answer to me,” replied Julian firmly. “If 
a man ever wins your love and casts you aside as a play- 
thing, may Heaven have mercy on him, for I will not.” 

“Why, I never saw you so wrought up or heard you talk 
like that before,” said Mary, stammering with fright. “I— 


LIFE. 


107 


I — am sure^ — such language is not becoming in a minister.” 

‘‘Forgive me, Mary,” he said, “even ministers forget them- 
selves sometimes. They are human, donT you know? Like 
other men they are possessed of tempers, passions and in- 
stincts which, when uncontrolled, sink them to the level of 
brutes.” 

“Hello, Julian, come out and enjoy the view.” 

It was the voice of Richard Crowe. 

Julian and Mary had now reached the Belvedere and 
looking up to see where the gentleman’s voice came from, 
saw him gazing down upon them from one of the turrets. 

“This building is modelled after a portion of the Vatican 
at Rome, and the name in Italian means ‘fair view,’ ” said 
Julian. “From the roof you can see the streets and avenues 
which surround the Park, the lakes and all the reservoirs. 

I think the view will amply repay you for the trouble of 
the climb. Shall we ascend?” 

“Oh, yes, I wish to see everything,” replied the girl, and 
they ascended the winding stairway to the turreted tower 
above. 

As they came through the small door on the roof, they 
saw Ned, the cripple-boy, handing a large package of money 
to Richard Crowe. 

“Ah, Ned, my boy, are you making lots of money these 
days?” questioned Julian. 

“Yes, indeed-ee,” answered the boy, “dis Spanish war i&- 
great for de newspapers an’ de news-kids too; every day las’ 
week, I put by a five spot, an’ ter day I reckon I’ll get away 
wid a ten.” 

“Well, you are prospering. Are you making Mr. Crowe 
your banker?” inquired the minister. 

“No, not exactly,” replied Ned proudly, “I jest give him 
five hundred dollars fer to make mudder, an’ de kid, an’ me 
rich fer de rest of our lives.” 

“Five hundred dollars?” 

“Yes, fer to exploit his invention, dat’s what he calls it. 
Says dat inside of a year it’ll pay ten dollars fer every fifty 


108 


LIFE. 


cents what’s put inter it. Gee, Mr. Preacher, I calls it a 
lead pipe cinch.” 

“And the money? Is it all you have?” 

“Sure. I saved it from my papers and from der serscrip- 
tion what de people raised fer me when I fell in der river. 
If I had more Pd give him dat, too; why, it’s better den de 
races, it’s a twenty to one shot, an’ de dark horse wins, — 
dead-certain-sure.” 

Julian took his uncle’s arm and walked with him to the 
far corner of the roof. 

“You must give the boy his money back,” he said quietly. 

“I won’t,” replied Mr. Crowe, with dogged determination. 

“You shall,” replied Julian. “Why, Uncle Dick, do you 
know what you are doing? You are robbing the widow and 
the orphan of their all. I am ashamed of you.” 

“Now, see here, Jule, don’t talk like that. I’m going to 
make their fortune. Why, with the use of this money, my 
invention will turn New York upside down in less than no 
time. In a few weeks Crowe’s Patent Lighting and Heat- 
ing Apparatus will be on every tongue; every family in the 
city will buy one. Eliza and I will move up to Fifth Ave- 
nue, we’ll ride in a carriage and pair and build you a new 
Church for a Christmas present.” 

“Oh, stop talking nonsense,” replied his nephew. 

“It is not nonsense,” thundered Mr. Crowe. “As sure as 
you stand there, sir, Crowe’s Patent Lighting and Heating 
Apparatus will revolutionize the world. I’ll put the coal 
barons and the mines of Pennsylvania out of business in 
three months. What will people want with coal when I can 
heat a house and light up twenty rooms for fifteen cents a 
day?* Why, with Crowe’s Patent ” 

“Oh, stop, stop,” said Julian, interrupting his uncle’s 
studied burst of eloquence. “I remember, too well, the fate 
of Crowe’s patent wings, with the use of which men were 
to fly, — and didn’t I Crowe’s patent fire-proof building ma- 
terial which couldn’t burn— and did! Crowe’s Patent Rain 


LIFE. 


109 


Producer, warranted to bring rain, — and couldn’t. Crowe’s 
Patent ” 

It was Richard Crowe who interrupted the conversation 
this time. 

“Yes, Jule, I know those were failures,” he said coaxingly, 
“but the Patent Lighting and Heating Apparatus ” 

“May be a failure also,” said his nephew. “Uncle Dick, 
no one wishes you more success than I do, but you have bor- 
rowed money on previous inventions from mother, from 
your brother, from Wilfrid, from me and from everyone 
you knew and no one has ever seen the color of their money 
returned to them. And for that reason, I say you shall not 
keep the money of the widow and her crippled son.” 

“Oh, Mr. Preacher, bring your opery glasses quick; der 
pic-nic is breaking up in a row,” shouted Ned at the top of 
his voice, pointing to the common where the children from 
the Mission had been playing so long. 

Julian took his field glasses from their case, placed them 
to his eyes and turned them in the direction of the pic-nic 
ground. 

A square had been formed by the boys, in the center of 
which stood two youths stripped to the waist, one, a white 
boy, and the other black. 

“Uncle Dick, there’s a fight going on between your son 
and the colored lad, Ephraim,” said Julian. 

“Well, I’ll bet two dollars that my boy licks the nigger,” 
replied Richard Crowe, beaming with parental pride. 

^Well, he ought to; he is four years older and the negro 
is dying from consumption,” replied Julian. 

“You don’t say so,” replied his uncle, somewhat crestfallen, 
“then my son and heir to the Patent Heating and Lighting 
Apparatus will hear from his father in a manner which will 
not render him over joyous.” 

“He’s down,” said Julian. 

“Which one? My son?” asked Mr. Crowe. 

“No, the negro.” 

“Think he’s hurt?” 


110 


LIFE. 


can’t tell yet; he doesn’t rise.” 

^‘Knocked out, for certain.” 

“The boys crowd around and are now carrying the negro 
under the shadow of the trees, — they lay him down, there is 
great excitement. Uncle, we had better go at once and see 
if we can be of assistance.” 

Both men were very pale as they hurried down the stairs 
and started in the direction of the common. 

“Wish he’d left his opery glasses,” said Ned, addressing 
Mary. 

“Why?” she questioned. 

“So that I could see the fight, if they start her up again,” 
said the boy. “Never seen a real prize fight, did ye. Miss?” 

“No, it must be very cruel.” 

“’Taint nuther; it’s de manly art. An’ say, it pays better 
dan Crowe’s Patent Lightin’ an’ Heatin’ Apparatus. If I 
wasn’t a cripple I’d be a prize fighter, on de level now, you 
bet.” - 

“Think; some one bigger than you might whip you,” she 
said, smiling inwardly at the thought of his words and con- 
trasting them with his poor, wasted frame. 

“Well, ain’t dat what everybody and every t’ing is a doin’ 
any way?” said the boy. “De United States is lickin’ little 
Spain, as was tryin’ to lick littler Cuba. De big fishes in 
de seas eats de little ones, de great cor-po-ra-shuns on de land 
swallow up de small uns, so de papers say ” 

A large bird flew overhead, screeching as it went. 

“What is that?” asked Mary. 

“A sparrow hawk,” replied the boy, “an’ he’s lookin’ fer 
de little sparrows fer to chaw.” 

“Birds and beasts of prey everywhere, on the land, in the 
sea and the sky, and the big ones are all seeking the destruc- 
tion of the smaller I” she said, sighing. 

“Yes, Mies, but you’se safe, you is,” he answered with 
pride, “’cause you’se an angel, — leastways de kids round 
Cherry Hill says so, an’ I reckon dey knows,— fer angels 
don’t come dat way of’en.” 


CHAPTEK XI. 


A QUESTION RAISED AND ANSWERED. 

“Were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae bleak and bare, sae bleak and bare. 

The desert were a Paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there ; 

Or were I monarch o’ the globe, 

Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign, 

The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.” 

— Robert Burns. 

The ministers little study was cool and restful. It was 
a warm morning outside, but in the room only enough of 
the sun^s hot rays managed to creep in through the vine 
shadowed window to make it pleasant. 

Julian was writing his next Sunday’s sermon at the big 
centre table, and Mary sat opposite him at the open, vine- 
latticed window sewing. 

Very sweet and fair she seemed to the minister as he 
watched her bend over the little garment she had selected 
from the huge basketful of work at her side. She wore a 
simple gingham gown, a little open at the throat, and her 
bright hair was caught and knotted low on the nape of her 
white neck. As she sewed she sang softly to herself the little 
lullaby with which she was wont to soothe to slumber many 
of the sick babies of the parish. She was making the small 
garment in her hands for one of them now. 

As Julian watched her, his grave face lighted up with a 
wonderful new tenderness. Mary had changed within a few 
short weeks from a shrinking child into a sensible and loving 
girl. Whether it was from the minister’s companionship or 
the innumerable great lessons of life which came constantly 


112 


LIFE. 


beneath her observation in her daily work with God’s un- 
fortunates in the wretched slums, that so rapidly developed 
her child’s ignorant, unthinking mind into a woman’s brain 
and soul, Julian could not tell; neither could he have told 
why, for some strange reason, every day seemed brighter to 
him now than the one that had preceded it. The miserable 
hovels to which he went daily with aid and comfort were 
no longer dark, for Mary’s presence at his side seemed to 
pierce through the gloom and light its sordidness. 

That same quality in her, which made more endurable 
the slums, had made more beautiful, in a way, the unbeauti- 
ful little parsonage. She had trained the green creepers 
with their tiny scarlet blossoms across the weather-beaten 
lattice of the study window. She had carefully nursed into 
luxuriant growth some small cuttings the old German florist 
on the corner had given her. They were little debts of grati- 
tude on his part, for one day she had brought home to him, 
carrying it in her arms, his little blind terrier whose leg 
had been run over and broken by a truck. Other tiny blos- 
soms bloomed vain-colored and fragrant on the queer, little 
brown organ by the other window. These were gifts from 
old Franz Guegginheimer when his wife died, in spite of 
the untiring nursing of both Julian and Mary, and Franz 
had since gone back to the fatherland to spend the few re- 
maining years of his life. The organ was a poor, little in- 
strument at best, but somehow Mary managed to get music 
from it. She had never had a music lesson in her life, but 
she had played by ear ever since she could remember on a 
jangling little spinet, back in her home in the old country, 
and her simple playing and sweet, plaintive voice, like every- 
thing else about her, was delightfully sympathetic and sooth- 
ing to Julian. 

Indeed, her personality had come to fill his days, his home, 
his thoughts and his work to such an extent that he won- 
dered how he had ever existed without her. 

And, as is ever the way with precious things, the thought 
following the one of its priceless worth, was a sudden dread 


LIFE. 


113 


of the losing of it. And the young man sighed unconsciously 
as the mere shadow of the painful idea crossed his mind and 
made his heart contract with a sudden fear. 

At the sound of his deep sigh, Mary looked up and smiled 
at him. 

*^Is the sermon so hard to-day?” she asked. 

He shook his head and put his hand over his eyes. After 
all, minister or no minster, he was a man in the best sense 
of the word, a man with such a heart as needed a woman 
to complete his manliness, a woman, lovely and tender to 
crown and perfect his pure and ennobling love, a woman 
to walk by his side through life, accomplishing together 
their little share of the great work which Christ has left 
His followers to finish. 

And Julian, who looked for the good in everything, saw in 
the light of a specially designed blessing the circumstances 
which had brought Mary into his life. 

It never occurred to him that this daily sight of the dark- 
est side of humanity was an unnatural existence for a girl 
of her years, that only her heart, chastened with the sorrow 
of her father^s death, found peace and consolation in com- 
forting other fellow sufferers, and that the poignancy of 
that grief worn away by time, the reaction would set in, 
and her youth would clamor for other scenes than those of 
constant suffering and misery. Not that her home life was 
so. Julian was not one of those ministers of the gospel 
whose religion is measured by their long faces; he was al- 
ways cheerful and while grieving for the sorrows of man- 
kind, felt happy in the thought that in his small way, he 
was permitted to make some of them less miserable. 

Their few daily hours at home were passed delightfully 
in their quiet way. Julian read aloud, or he and Mary sang 
together, and thus the days passed and both were happy, 
ignorant of the fact that Fate held tight together the cur- 
tains which hid a mighy future woe. 

^^Go and rest a little while, dear,” pleaded Mary. “You 
were up so late at that death bed last night, and you must 


114 


LIFE. 


be all tired out; yoU always take those things so much to 
heart. Now, you needn’t shake your head, I believe I know 
you better than you know yourself, at least, I know one thing 
better,” she said, ^^and that is how good you are.” 

I were half so good as you make me out, Mary,” said 
Julian, smiling, “I’m afraid I would have taken leave of the 
world long ago.” 

“Well,” argued Mary, “I don’t see how you could be any 
better, or do any more than you do. I know that if I — Oh, 
Julian,” as she saw from her post at the window a carriage 
draw up at their humble door. 

“What is it? Why do you look so startled, Mary?” he 
questioned as the girl grew slightly paler and began to ner- 
vously gather up her sewing preparatory to leaving the 
room. 

“It — is your mother,” she replied. 

“I don’t see, in the least, why that should cause you to 
run away,” said Julian. “Sit down, won’t you, please?” 

“Oh, Julian, I’d rather not; I don’t know why, but she 
always hurts me so and then I feel wicked about it. Let 
me go, if you please.” 

“Certainly, if that is the case, although I would rather 
you would stay.” 

“Then I will,” said Mary, setting her basket on the floor 
and resuming her seat by the window, just as Mrs. St. Ju- 
lian, gorgeously vivid in lilac and black lace, sailed into the 
room, which looked shabbier and more faded than ever by 
contrast. She put up her gold lorgnette and looked about 
her. 

“Good morning, Julian,” she said. “Ah!” as her glance 
lighted on Mary. That was all she said, but she smiled a 
nasty, meaning smile, that made her face look ugly and 
caused Julian to flush darkly. When she turned her eyes 
to his he was regarding her steadily, and there was some- 
thing in the gleam of his usually quiet eyes that made her 
flush in turn. She laughed a little, uneasy laugh to cover 
her momentary confusion. 


LIFE. 


115 


^‘Miss St. John, mother,” he said pointedly. believe 
you have had the honor of meeting her before. My mother, 
Mary,” to the blushing girl at the window, who rose with 
a respectful bow. 

The lilac-clad lady would have preferred to have ignored 
the salutation of this low-born creature, but somehow she 
didnT dare, with Julian looking at her in that way; besides, 
she had come with an object in view, a desire to accomplish, 
and it was just as well not to get the enemy on the defensive 
so early in the game; so she acknowledged the oft-repeated 
introduction with a stiff bow of her pompadoured head. The 
half dozen different occasions of meeting Mary had required 
as many introductions. 

Mrs. St. Julian had never forgiven her for being the in- 
nocent cause of Wilfrid’s swearing off allegiance, and the 
mortification to which it had subjected her. And on the five 
encounters since that first ill-fated one, it had given her 
small nature infinite pleasure to ignore the girl first and 
insult her afterwards. 

This had been the reason of Mary’s perturbation at the 
lady’s arrival, and the cause of Julian’s insistence as to her 
remaining in the room. He was a dutiful, respectful son, 
a long-suffering one, but when Mary had sobbed all night 
after his mother’s last attack, he had made up his mind that 
it should be his duty on the next offence to both punish and 
reprove. 

‘^Miss St. John is trying very hard to finish that work for 
the Children’s Society by to-night, mother, so that they may 
have clean frocks to wear at the service to-morrow, so you 
will excuse her if she continues with her sewing.” 

The lady pretended not to have heard her son; at any 
rate she made no answer, but started talking of something 
else. 

“Julian,” she began, “I — ” 

“Pardon me,” interrupted Julian. “Mary,” to the girl, 
who had resumed her work, “put down your sewing, dear; 
my mother will not excuse you ” 


116 


LIFE. 


Mrs. St. Julian grew scarlet, as Mary obediently did as 
she was bid. Only the greater desire to accomplish that for 
which she had come to the parsonage that morning prevented 
her from screaming at her son and tearing out Mary^s hair. 

But she was a woman who used every means to attain her 
ends, so she controlled herself. She was almost clever in her 
way, always looking out for the welfare of the future. When 
the Colonel had died and she discovered he had left her 
nothing out of his vast fortune, she went home, and in the 
seclusion of her own room tore the crepe-bound mourning 
garments from her, stamped all over them, and kicked them 
into the closet, where for some days they laid in a dusty 
heap on the floor; then not wishing by totally ignoring his 
death, to rob herself in the eyes of the world of the distinc- 
tion of the relationship, she resurrected the black vestments 
and a few weeks later laid them away with their unbecom- 
ingness, gave out the rumor that the shock of her brother’s 
death had seriously affected her health and nerves, invested 
in a becoming array of ‘^half mourning,’? mainly whites apd 
grays, an action essential to her state of invalidism, and as 
every one knows that mourning is trying on the health, and 
no one suspected the strained relationship which had ex- 
isted between herself and her brother, society supposed it 
was all right, sympathized with her illness, applauded her 
good sense, admired her excellent taste and the becoming- 
ness of her youthful tinted gowns. 

For this call upon Julian, as she had on the previous oc- 
casion, resurrected her mourning garb, so she now assumed 
a semblance of good temper. Julian had long been the 
thorn in her flesh and he knew it. Mrs. Julian McDonald 
had struggled hard to ascend the golden ladder of fashion’s 
social elect. Her husband’s name had been plain “Julian,” 
as was her son’s, who was named for him, and for ten years 
she had been plain Mrs. Julian. A lucky deal of her hus- 
band’s turned the wheel of fortune their way; then it hap- 
pened that her next box of newest visiting cards and her 


LIFE. 


117 


silver doorplate had the prefixed “St.” added, to swell the 
family name and fame. 

Her son’s chosen career of ministerial work had been a 
terrible disappointment to her and he knew it, but he never 
argued with her, or attempted to gainsay her, for long ago 
he had discovered the utter uselessness of reasoning where 
reason was not. 

“Julian,- my dear,” she now began with what she in- 
tended to be a smile of motherly affection, but resulted in a 
senile smirk which most unbecomingly creased the pasty 
skin about her lips, “I have wonderful news for you.” 

Julian looked at her politely, inquiringly. 

“Wilfrid?” he asked. 

“Oh, no, indeed,” replied the mother. “Something of in- 
finitely more importance.” 

“It must be indeed important if it comes before my 
brother,” said her son. 

“It is something I have tried to accomplish for years. I 
have used all my own influence and that of my friends has 
also been brought to bearl And it is all for you, Julian, 

dear, all for you ,” she paused a moment to see the effect 

of her prelude, but her son’s face was as unreadable as that 
of the sphinx. 

“We all of us,” she continued, “your mother, your rela- 
tives and friends, have been so distressed to see you waste 
your great talents, your youth and your health amid these 
vile sights and low associates, that we have used every effort 
to better the conditions of your calling, and I have come to 
tell you that at last, as a result of this effort, you are to be 
called up town, to the pastorship of our church, where you 
will be appreciated and admired by people of your own class 
and standing.” 

“Mother,” replied Julian gently, “you make it very hard 
for me to do my duty. You know I am in this sacred work 
for the good that I can do in it. Yourself and friends up 
town don’t need me in the same way that these poor children 


118 


LIFE. 


of the slums do. I could never be all to you and your circle 
that I am to them.” 

He stopped and brushed his hand across his eyes as if to 
see his way clearer. His mother had grown slightly pale 
and pressed her thin lips tightly together. 

would do anything on earth to make you happy, mother. 
I would make you my first consideration in all worldly 
things, but my first duty is to God and what I believe to 
be right. I am sorry to disappoint you in not accepting 
this call, and I appreciate the interest which prompted you 
to do this more than I ever have anything in all of my 
life.” 

‘‘Then you will not come,” said Mrs. St. Julian in the 
hard, thin tone she always used when she was choking with 
inward rage. 

Her son recognized its quality and understood. The first 
time he had heard it was when, as a little fellow, he had 
run up to his “pretty mama” in her silk party dress, and 
caught her skirt in one of his dirty little baby hands. She 
had struck it sharply away and sent him upstairs to bed 
and then had gone to her evening of pleasure while he had 
sobbed himself to sleep in his little crib, not because of the 
red, smarting little fist tucked under the pillow, but because 
of a terrible longing for love, and the pain of its repulse, 
which throbbed mercilessly in his baby heart. He under- 
stood perfectly why his mother had interested herself in 
him and his welfare. He knew the motive of pride, the de- 
sire that he should reflect more credit upon her, which had 
prompted her efforts and those of her friends. He couldn’t 
help knowing, although he tried to honestly persuade him- 
self that it was some spark, faint, perhaps, of maternal love 
or interest in his health. He told himself that this was so 
and all the while a mocking devil of his brain laughed at 
the lie. 

“I cannot go, mother,” he said. “I cannot leave my parish 
with its thousand and one calls upon me. They need me, 
God made their burdens mine, and His will be done !” 


LIFE. 


119 


^‘Fiddlesticks!^’ exclaimed his mother, purple with rage 
and vexation. “You’re a prating simpleton, a miserable 
fool ” 

“Mother!” 

His voice rang out like a clarion and she stopped abashed. 
Julian drew himself up to his full height and a splendid 
dignity sat upon him. He indicated his clerical robe with 
a motion of his hand. 

“If you have no regard or respect for me,” he said, “at 
least remember my holy orders.” 

Mary over by the window gazed on the picture before her 
with distended eyes. She had never seen Julian like this 
before and she gazed on him with awe and admiration. 

Mrs. St. Julian began to whimper. 

“This is what I get for all my pains. I am abused and 
talked to like a servant ” 

Julian looked at her, and Mary watching, saw a strange 
mixture of pity, amusement and contempt in his face. 

“You are just like your father,” continued Mrs. St. Julian, 
“obstinate, obtuse and unpresentable; with your father it 
was natural. He was bom plain as an old shoe, but with you 
it’s pure selfishness and perversity.” 

Her son pressed his hands tightly together and resolutely 
closed his lips. He did not trust himself to speak on occa- 
sions like the present, when she saw fit to thus slight the 
memory of the dead husband and father, whose untiring 
efforts had gilded the ladder for her by which she had 
climbed so far above him and his great heart. 

“I will leave you now,” she said; “I suppose it is quite 
useless to argue with you.” 

“Quite.” 

She looked about the room for a parting shot and her eyes 
rested on Mary. 

“After all,” she said in her nastiest way, “I suppose you 
can enjoy certain liberties and advantages in a place like 
this which would be quite impossible in a respectable pas- 
torate.” 


120 


LIFE. 


Man of God though he was, for one moment Julian could 
have struck the woman before him to the ground. He pointed 
with one quivering hand to the door. 

^^Good bye,” said his mother; am leaving for Europe 
next week to take that little wild-cat, scare-crow wife of 
Wilfrid’s to school in Paris, so in all probability I shall not 
see you again. Good bye.” 

^^Qood bye,” replied Julian softly, but with a mighty effort, 
“a pleasant voyage and a safe return, mother.” 

As the door closed behind her he sank back into his chair 
and covered his face with his hands. 

How terrible was this miserable abortion of natural affec- 
tion, this unhappy, unnatural relation between mother and 
son. Was he right, after all? Wouldn’t it have been better 
to have done as she wished? She was his mother, and, per- 
haps, it would have healed the breach which had torn his 
heart for many years. Even as he wondered a knock came at 
the door and Mary admitted a ragged little urchin whose 
dirty face was clean in streaks where great tears had washed 
his cheeks. 

“Minister,” he choked, “our baby’s dead to home, and ma 
sez won’t you please come over for a bit?” 

A wonderful light which banished all doubt — the reflex 
of that peace of God which passeth all understanding, broke 
over Julian’s white face. A Higher power had decreed ! He 
rose and took the little fellow’s hand and went out into the 
night with God’s messenger. 


• CHAPTER XII. 


IN A HOSPITAL TENT. 

“I tell you that nothing my soul can cheer — 

Or banquetting, or reposing — 

Like the onset-cry of ‘Charge them !’ rung 
From each side as in battle closing — ” 

— Bertrand de Bom. 

It was a scorching day in mid- August — in Cuba! Scat- 
tered over the little island were American troops: it was 
the summer of 1898 and only six weeks had elapsed since the 
memorable events of Santiago, San Juan, El Caney and 
Guasima. 

There was not a regiment in Uncle Sam’s army which 
registered its full quota of men. Bullet wounds and fever 
had laid low many a brave fellow who had left all to respond 
to his country’s call. The hospitals were full to overflowing 
and the Red Cross nurses had their hands more than full. 

Among the wounded, in one of the many big hospital 
tents, lay Lieutenant Wilfrid 'McDonald, of the 2nd Cavalry. 
He had fought well; even the Colonel in his best days had 
not been more brave. With that splendid spirit which char- 
acterized everything McDonald did, he had dared with ab- 
solute coolness and fearlessness, man, devil and death alike, 
caring naught for the outcome. He was of those fortunate 
ones who are successful in every condition of circumstances. 
Less fortunate men, with double his efforts, struggled to 
only the half of the heighth of his success. Perhaps he 
did not really accomplish more or even so much as many 
another, but there was that strange magnetic quality in his 
every action that kept him ever afloat on the highest wave 
of surging humanity. 


122 


LIFE. 


He had fought all the long day in the trenches about 
Santiago and had escaped injury, but at the close of the 
battle of San Juan, his horse was shot under him and he 
received a painful, though not serious, wound in his right 
leg. 

He spent whole hours swearing uniquely at his fate (he 
swore well as he did everything else), tossing about rest- 
lessly, and mad with desire to be out in the thick of the ex- 
citement. 

On this particular August day, it was insufferably hot. 
Finding that his impatience only increased the tempera- 
ture of the atmosphere about him, Wilfrid had at last grown 
quiet and lay rueful and sweltering on his small cot. His 
hair was damp and rumpled and his grey eyes were pitiful, 
almost childish, in their helplessness. 

‘‘Well, Lieutenant, how are you this morning?” asked the 
nurse, cheerfully, as she came toward him with a roll of fresh 
bandages. 

“Hotter^n belli And as useless as a Christian who’d go 
there!” growled the young man. 

The kindly nurse was shocked. “Why, Lieutenant, you 
must have had a very bad night,” she ventured inquir- 
ingly. 

“Humph!” was the only reply Wilfrid vouchsafed. After 
a pause: “How long before I can get out of this infernal 
hole?” he asked. 

“In two weeks, if you are very good and donT give your 
wound a set-back in one of your tempers,” she answered. 
The young man looked a little ashamed of himself. 

“I beg your pardon. Miss Wilson; I know Fve been an 
awfully tough customer for you,” he said penitently. 

If he had known it, his being a “tough customer” was less 
hard on the poor little nurse than the penitent tone and the 
boyish smile which set her heart beating so furiously. 

“No, you haven’t,” she answered, “and I shall miss you 
dreadfully. Lieutenant.” 

“You’re awfully good to say so; and I hope we’ll meet 


LIFE. 


123 


again sometime, when you can have a good laugh at the 
expense of San Juan hero,’ who was too cowardly to bear 
a little pain and confinement like a man, eh 

“You slander yourself and I shan’t listen to you,” said 
the nurse indignantly. 

Wilfrid cast a quick look at the girl from beneath his eye- 
lashes. 

“Another!” he thought. “I must be careful. I’m sorry, 
too ; she’s a good-hearted little brick.” 

“Well, Miss Wilson,” he continued, “if you will give me 
a pencil and a pad. I’ll write a letter home and I won’t 
trouble you any longer.” 

She did as he desired and left him. Wilfrid had not re- 
ceived any mail from New York since arriving on the island. 
He presumed that owing to the unsettled condition of the 
times, his letters must have been lost or miscarried. But 
he was going back on sick leave very soon, his wound ren- 
dering his stay on the scene of action quite useless, and he 
wanted to notify the family to meet him. He did not know 
whether news of his being wounded had reached them or 
not, so not wishing to shock or frighten his mother, he con- 
cluded to write to Julian only. 

“I’ll be awfully glad to get back to the States, old fellow,” 
he wrote, “it’s all right when you’re doing active service, 
but laying up with a game leg and a nasty temper in this 
Godforsaken hole is no fun. I’ll tell you. I haven’t heard 
from any of you for some weeks, but I suppose, of course, 
mother has taken herself out of town at this time- of year. 
If she has, as I’m not sick enough to go to any hospital, 
(they’re infernal things, any way,) I guess I’ll have to ask 
for a room at the ^parsonage’ for a few weeks, if you don’t 
mind. It’s miserable lying half sick and alone around a 
hotel, you know. By the by, how is your pretty orphan? 
Is she still growing geraniums and singing songs for you 
and old Betsy? •» * * If all goes well with the leg, I 
will leave here two weeks from Saturday on the Matteawan. 
I am glad to make the return trip by sea, because I think it 


124 


LIFE. 


will freshen me up a bit after this roasting alive experience 
down here. Will land at Montauk Point, so if you don’t 
hear from me again, watch the time tables of the transports 
in the papers and be sure to meet me.” 

He addressed the envelope and lay back with a 
sigh of relief, quite tired out with the unusual exertion 
and in five minutes he was sleeping soundly. Half 
an hour later, the little nurse, going in to see how he 
was getting along, found him in the land of dreams. 
The pad had slipped to the floor and his relaxed 
fingers had let go of the pencil and the letter. His fair 
hair lay in damp curls about his pale forehead. With his 
eyes hidden from view and his stern mouth relaxed, he 
looked — with one arm thrown boy-fashion above his head, — 
like some tired, beautiful child. 

The little nurse stood looking down on his unconscious 
face, her own flushing and paling by turns, and she clasped 
her hands tightly together. Then suddenly, she drew a 
quick inward breath, and stooping, kissed him softly on 
the forehead. 

He stirred and smiled in his sleep, while the girl stood 
frozen with horror, afraid that he might waken and under- 
stand. But the kiss had not aroused him, it only found an 
echo in his dreams, and she went back to her hot little alcove 
and sat for a long time, by the table, her head bowed on her 
arms, the hot tears burning her dark eyes, and a strange 
hungry pain tearing at her heart. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE MAJOR SCATTERS SOME PHILOSOPHY. 

“And not by eastern windows only, 

When daylight comes, comes in the light ; 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly. 

But westward, look, the land Is bright.” 

— Arthur Hugh Clough. 

On Cherry street, not far from Market, in the top apart- 
ment of a crowded tenement house, lived Mr. and Mrs. 
Crowe and their two children. 

Their apartment was scantily furnished, but thanks to Mrs. 
Crowe, was clean, neat and tidy and formed a striking con- 
trast to the large majority of tenement flats in the over- 
crowded house, which was peopled by pickpockets and crim- 
inals of the lowest type, the most of whom were herded to- 
gether like beasts. 

The Crowe family had seen better days ; in fact, prosperity 
had dealt generously with them and they had lived in a 
fashionable neighborhood up town, until a few years ago, 
when Richard’s inventive genius had gotten the better of 
his brains; since that time he had often been compelled to 
change his residence, sometimes on account of non-payment 
of rent, and upon each occasion the family had gone fur- 
ther and further down town, until at last they found them- 
selves in the degrading tenement house district of the lower 
east side. 

The back room of the apartment was fltted up with a 
work-bench, a turning lathe and tools of every description, 
and Richard proudly called it “The Inventor’s Den.” It 
was here where he toiled through the day and into the long 
hours of the night, working untiringly upon inventions 
from which he never realized, building huge castles in the 


126 


LIFE. 


air and dreaming bright visions as to what he would do with 
the vast fortunes he would accumulate when success should 
crown his efforts, as he felt it must do, in the end. 

Three months have passed since we last saw him in Cen- 
tral Park, when he accepted the cripple boy^s money to foster 
his invention and during that time he had worked assidu- 
ously, and with so much confidence that upon this, the fifth 
day of October, he had invited his friends and a half a 
dozen capitalists to come and see his completed models 
actually working and giving out light and distributing heat 
at a minimum cost which would startle the whole world. 

But another failure had been the reward of his labors ; the 
valves refused to work, the minute construction of the 
machinery was faulty and with almost a broken heart, he 
informed his visitors, who had come to witness his triumph, 
that he would have to begin again. 

^^Begin again!” said his wife, with her nose high in the 
air and in a most indignant voice. ^^The old story, it vul- 
nerates me to exasperation, where’s the money to come from 
to begin again? Mj turbulent spirits rise with refractori- 
ness into disturbed commotion when I think how your wife 
and offsprings must suffer and you can unfeelingly sit there 
in front of all these people and cogitatively remark that you 
must begin again!” 

^‘My dear, my invention is for the good of humanity,” 
pleaded Mr. Crowe. 

‘‘Yes, you would be a demiurge if you could, but you 
can’t, and the sooner you know it and get down to hard 
work and labor, the better it will be for your family and 
yourself,” urged his wife. 

“Now, don’t let trifies trouble you,” put in Harold Mor- 
ton, patting the good woman on the back. The Major had 
been expressly invited to witness the completion of the in- 
vention, so that he might act as special press agent and 
record the news to the public at large. “Rome was not 
built in a day, don’t you know?” he added, “and we will all 
hope for better luck next time.” 


LIFE. 


127 


The financial men whom Richard had looked upon but an 
hour before as positive investors began to leave the room 
in disgust. 

“Sorry I came,” said one. 

“The man must be cracked,” said another. 

“Mad as a March hare!” added a third. 

“Couldn’t do it in a hundred years,” said a hard-faced, 
wizened little personage. “Crowe indeed, that crow should 
be shot for having the audacity to bring sensible people to 
witness his brainless idiosyncracies.” 

And the little man tried to swell himself peacocklike in 
a vain attempt to look bigger than his associates. 

In a few minutes the Crowes were left almost alone, Jul- 
ian, Mary and the Major being all that remained to offer 
any kindly consolation. 

It was then that Mrs. Crowe’s grief found vent in a tor- 
rent of tears. 

“Oh, Dick!” she cried between her sobs, “you must have 
heard what those men said of you, — ‘non compos mentis!’ 
and you are my husband, father of my children and — oh — 
o— o!” 

She broke down entirely and could say no more. 

“Come, Aunt Eliza, it is useless to give way like this,” 
said Mary gently, as she placed one arm around the old 
lady’s neck and stroked her grey hair with the other, “all 
will come out right in the end; don’t cry, you not only pain 
yourself, but you will make us all unhappy.” 

“It can’t be helped, — it can’t be helped!” sobbed Mrs. 
Crowe. “So much has been dependent upon Dick’s success 
to-day! The landlord, the grocer, the butcher, the baker 
will all be here for their money in the morning and worse 
than all, — there’s little Ned Riley — ” 

Great sobs again interrupted her speech. Julian looked 
reproachfully at his uncle, whose eyes were turned towards 
the floor in shame. 

“What does Ned want, aunty?” inquired Mary, kindly. 


128 


LIFE. 


money that’s due him,” wailed 'Mrs. Crowe mourn- 
fully. 

“Money — due — Ned?” questioned Mary, unable to under- 
stand. 

More tears, more sobs and moans were her only answers, 
until Kichard himself looked up; his face was very white, 
his hands trembled and with choking voice he replied: 

“Yes, Mary, to my shame be it said, I took money from 
the boy, — more than five hundred dollars, — all that he had. 
Julian told me that I had no right to take the money of the 
widow and the orphan, — but I was a fool, I would not listen 
to him; I wanted it for that invention, I was sure that with 
it, I could make his fortune and mine. To-day I told him 
we should be rich, and to-morrow he’ll be here for his money, 
for his mother is ill and dependent upon him for support, — 
and there will be no money for him, — for it is all gone, — 
spent upon that thing of wheels and valves and mechanism 
that won’t work and won’t give out light and heat, as I 
thought it would. The men are right; I have been mad; the 
widow and orphan, my wife and children must suffer for 
my folly — but they shan’t do it longer — .” 

A heavy, steel bar lay beneath his hand; as he spoke, he 
raised it above his head and in another instant, with all the 
force he could command, he struck it across the machine 
upon which he had worked for so many months, and the one 
blow shattered the delicate mechanism seemingly into a 
thousand pieces. 

Again he raised the bar with an insane desire to complete 
the work of destruction. 

“Uncle Dickl” 

It was Julian’s voice recalling him to his senses and it was 
Julian’s strong arm that caught the heavy bar and wrested 
it from his uncle’s grasp as if the latter had been a little 
child. 

“Dick, old man, don’t let trifles trouble you like this,” said 
the Major, as he placed his hands upon Richard’s shoulder 
and forced him gently into his chair. “See what an infernal 


LIFE. 


129 


idiot you are making of yourself; a lot of that machinery 
might have been sold for at least half of what it cost and 
now it is so badly broken up that even a junk man could 
hardly be persuaded to accept it for the asking.’’ 

“Come, Aunt Eliza, let us go into the parlor, I want to 
talk to you alone,” said Mary, and with the gentlest per- 
suasion she raised Mrs. Crowe to her feet and they left the 
inventor’s den together. 

As soon as they were gone, the Major closed the door be- 
hind them. 

“Dick, have a cigar, smoke up and don’t let trifles trouble 
you,” he said as he came back and stood in front of Richard’s 
chair, with his open cigar case in his hand. “Now, you’ve 
been indulging in these pipe-dream inventions long enough 
to the detriment of yourself and everyone you know, now pull 
yourself together and Julian and I will see what can be done 
to straighten matters out.” 

Richard took a cigar and lit it; the Major offered the case 
to Julian, who shook his head. 

“Oh, I forgot,” laughed the Major, “you do not smoke, be- 
cause you think it would be a bad example to set before your 
parishioners. Thankful am I, that I am not put up as a 
model for hmnanity to copy, for either I would be forced to 
lose the greater part of my pleasure or the world, if it fol- 
lowed me, would be fearfully corrupt.” 

And he lit his cigar, settled back in an arm chair, placed 
his feet upon the work-bench and proceeded to blow circles 
and clouds of smoke, as if in the seventh heaven of con- 
tentment. 

“Uncle Dick, what is the amount of your debts?” ques- 
tioned Julian. 

“I have not the least idea,” replied that gentleman, with 
a sigh; “Mrs. Crowe has all of the bills and I have not even 
dared to look at them.” 

“You owe your landlord?” 

“Four months’ rent.” 

5 


130 


LIFE. 


“Why, you are in danger of being dispossessed.” 

“Yes, when he finds that there is no money coming to- 
morrow, I am sure he will give me notice.” 

“Your rent is?” 

“Fifteen a month.” 

“Sixty dollars, I will take care of that.” 

Eichard’s eyelids began to blink, he tried his best to keep 
back the tears, but despite his efforts, the big drops of water 
filled his eyes and coursed down over his cheeks. 

“I don’t deserve this kindness, Jule,” he said, “I feel like 
a thief. Yesterday I saw a starving man arrested for steal- 
ing bread from a wagon. Surely his crime was less than 
mine; he took only bread, while I have taken the little all 
that belonged to others and I cannot pay it back.” 

“For heaven’s sake cease putting everything in the worst 
possible light,” said the 'Major. “Of course you can pay it 
back, — in time! Luckily, being a man of family, the law 
will not allow your trades people to take your furniture 
away from you, and when Jule pays your rent, you will still 
have your home. Health and strength are yours, and if I 
mistake not, you are an excellent accountant.” 

“Yes, I am considered an expert,” replied Mr. Crowe. 

“Good!” said the Major. “Sell this lathe, these tools, 
this machinery, put all the infernal rubbish of inventions 
out of your head, become a practical human being instead 
of a dreamer, and I will find work for you which will not 
only pay your debts, but also place your family beyond the 
chance of want.” 

“And give up all for which I have striven so long?” 

The cigar dropped from Eichard’s fingers. The idea of 
forsaking his cherished ambitions seemed like parting with 
his life. 

“Certainly, the bubble has burst, the delusion has van- 
ished into air, its practicability has gone up into smoke like 
your cigar and all that is left is the dead ashes and an un- 
savory, ill-smelling end! Pah !” said the Major with disgust, 
throwing away the remains of his own cigar, “forget that 


LIFE. 


131 


such folly ever emanated in that thing you call your brain, 
pull yourself together and become a man.” 

“What shall I dof Advise me, and if I can follow your 
advice, I give you my promise that I will do so.” 

He rose to his feet and took the Major^s proffered hand. 

“One of the bookkeepers in our office is in failing health 
and wishes to go abroad; only this morning our general 
manager asked me if I knew anyone who could take his 
place; if you wish it, I am confident that I can secure you 
the situation.” 

“If I wish it!” repeated Richard. “Major, it is as good 
as done. Wife!” he cried, as Mrs. Crowe opened the door 
and entered the room, “Come and kiss me, I am going to 
work !” 

“Richard, what does this mean? Have you really lost 
your senses?” inquired Mrs. Crowe, going towards her hus- 
band. 

“No, dear, it means I have just found them. I intend to 
give up inventing and go to work for others on a salary of 
so much per month.” 

“Richard, it is the best news I have heard in years,” she 
• cried, as she flew into his outstretched arms and kissed him 
again and again. 

“And Julian is going — is going to pay our rent — and 
wife, — ^you and the children shall not suffer any longer and 
soon we will get out of this miserable neighborhood and 
move up town,” he said gladly ; then a look of sorrow crossed 
his face and again he lowered his head in shame. “Think- 
ing only of our own happiness, I had forgotten the greatest 
wrong I have done to others,” he continued; “the boy — Ned 
Riley — I had promised to pay him back to-morrow.” 

“That money will be paid back to-night,” said Mrs. 
Crowe. 

“To-night?” he gasped. 

“Yes, to-night!” she answered. 

“Oh, what other angel has come to bless us now?” he 
asked. 


132 


LIFE. 


“No angel,” she replied, “but good Mary St. John; when 
she learned of our misfortune and of the amount you had 
borrowed from the boy, she informed me that she had just 
that amount, which she didn’t know what to do with and she 
has gone to see the widow to pay the debt we owe.” 

They were all silent for several moments and each one 
was thinking of the nobility of the character of this unselfish 
girl; but Julian alone knew that she was giving away the 
last of the money left to her by her dead father and she was 
giving it freely without thought of compensation or reward, 
righting the wrongs of another, so that the poor might not 
be compelled to suffer and those for whom she was doing it 
were almost strangers to her. 

Julian was the first to break the silence, as he repeated the 
famous words from Tennyson’s “In Memoriam,” 

“I would the great world grew like thee, 

Who growest not alone In power 
And knowledge, but by year and hour 
In reverence and in charity.” 

“Oh, I forgot,” said Mrs. Crowe in alarm, “I promised 
her not to mention it, and here I have told it to you all ; well, 
it was a lapsus lingua,” she added. “A woman is a fool * 
to tell a secret to another woman, anyhow, and she is an 
absolute idiot when she makes her promise not to say a word 
about it.” 

“In all the world there’s not a lass 
As can compare wi’ Mary, 

In all her ways she’s gude an’ kind 
Wi’ charity not chary.” 

It was Julian who spoke these lines. 

“Here, old chap, stop that,”, cried the Major, “this is the 
second time you have spouted poetry in the last few minutes. 
If it occurs again, we shall all know that you are desperate- 
ly in love, not that we would blame you if you were, and 
here I warn you that if you do not make her Mrs. Julian 
McDonald very soon, I shall enter the lists in the race 
against you, and if I do, I shall give you a mighty hard run.” 


LIFE. 


133 


dear Major,” replied Julian, “any woman for whom 
a man has to run a race with others is not worth the win- 
ning. True, lasting love, the kind that brings perfect happi- 
ness in life, can have no competitors; it must be one for 
both and both for one, inseparably eternally, forever.” 

“Well, I don’t know much about those things myself,” 
replied the Major, laughing heartily; “I have had to write 
up so much misery as the result of unfortunate marriages, 
that I fear I shall always be afraid to make the plunge into 
the uncertain sea of matrimony and I am confident, that, if 
married, I should before the first year had passed, see a 
dozen other women whom I would wish had been my wife 
instead of the one I had chosen. Beastly sentiments, — you 
are thinking, aren’t you?” he asked, looking at Julian, who 
was gazing at him with pity. “Well, we cannot all wear a 
halo ’round our heads as you do; you see nature created you 
for a white sheep, and made of me a black one; it is not my 
fault, old chap, but simply my misfortune.” 

“My friend, you are the oddest piece of composite ma- 
terial in manhood that I have ever encountered,” said 
Julian. 

“You mean that the good and the bad within me are 
strangely mixed?” queried the Major; “well, looking through 
your religious eyes, perhaps they are, but I try to follow the 
golden rule: T do unto others as I would have them do by 
me,’ I enjoy life and I taste of all its pleasures and while 
doing so, I bring to those I meet as much happiness and as 
few tears as possible.” 

The clock struck eight. 

“A warning for me that it is time to go,” he continued, as 
he rose and put on his hat and coat, “I must now delve into 
the unsavory nastiness of life, so as to create a literary feast 
for your best citizens to enjoy while eating their to-morrow 
morning’s meal. Julian, did you ever think of the strange 
contrariety of the sentiments expressed and the real feelings 
secretly exhibited of your goody, goody people?” he asked. 
“Those who pretend to be horrified at the thought of sin 


134 


LIFE. 


eagerly devour every particle of scandal, and every choice 
detail of murder, rapine and robbery with which we can 
furnish them; I believe it imparts a desired flavor to their 
breakfast and gives zest to their digestion.” 

realize the truth of what you say,” said Julian, as he 
too arose to leave; “our fashionable churches are thronged 
every Sunday with well-dressed men and women, who feign 
to be better than they are; they dissimulate their real char- 
acter and assume a false appearance of piety and virtue 
which they neither feel nor believe.” 

“Yes, it is such fawning, sneaking hypocrites who drove 
all religion out of my life,” replied the Major. “In my 
early days I saw so much of the sanctimonious, canting 
Pharisees that I made up my mind that if they were en- 
titled to a seat in heaven, I would sooner make my future 
home in hell.” 

“Mr. Morton!” cried Mrs. Crowe, with indignation. 

“Ha 1 ha I ha !” laughed her husband. 

Julian looked pained, hurt. 

“Well, I had better go now, or the flrst thing we know our 
conversation may turn into a dissertation upon religion, in 
which case we might end in a row,” said the Major. “Good 
night, Mrs. Crowe, — sorry I made that remark, but no 
offence was intended, I assure you.” 

He shook hands with her warmly, then turning to her hus- 
band, continued: “Dick, I shall find the position for you be- 
fore many hours have passed over your head, so be prepared 
to come to the office at any time upon the receipt of a tele- 
gram. Good night, Dick, — coming, Julian? I am going 
right past your home.” The last words were spoken stand- 
ing in the open doorway. 

“Then we will go together,” said Julian. “Good night. 
Uncle Dick; good night. Aunt Eliza. I trust the events of 
to-night may end the troubles of the past, and that from 
this time on, your future life may be the brightest and 
happiest you have ever known.” 

The couple followed him to the hall doorway. 


LIFE. 


135 


shan’t forget your kindness. Thank Mary again for 
us,” said Mrs. Crowe. 

“Good night, Major; good night, Julian,” they called in 
unison, as they watched the two men disappear down the un- 
swept, uncarpeted and creaking stairway. 

What a pandemonium of human voices could be heard 
from every floor. 

Upon the first landing they stopped to talk to two chil- 
dren who were playing marbles. 

“What is your name?” questioned Julian. 

“Edith, sir,” replied the little girl. 

“How old are you?” he asked. 

“Six years,” she lisped. 

“Have you a mother?” 

“No, sir, my father and mother are dead.” 

“And who takes care of you?” 

“An Italian named Maori.” 

“Is he good to you?” 

“Yes, when we beg and people are good to us and we bring 
home plenty of money.” 

“And if you have none?” 

“Then he beats us and sends us to bed without any sup- 
per,” sobbed the child. 

Both the newspaper man and the minister instantly begaq 
to feel in their trousers’ pockets in quest of small change, 
and while they were doing so, the girl’s brother, but a year 
older than herself, deftly picked the two men’s coat pockets, 
relieving the minister of his gloves and the Major of his 
handkerchief. 

After giving each of the children some pennies, nickles . 
and dimes, the two men again started down stairs, feeling 
inwardly glad that they had been enabled to do the little 
ones some good. 

“Nice youngsters, those I A pity that they have to be 
brought up in such a haunt of vice,” said the Major. “This 
district is a recruiting headquarters for crime and here chil- 
dren are schooled to become expert thieves, — ^but I flatter 


136 


LIFE. 


myself I know a good child from a bad one. Experience 
amongst criminals has aided me,” he added, as he felt for his 
pocket handkerchief and could not find it; but he imagined 
that he had lost it and would never have acknowledged, even 
to himself, that it was possible for him to have been made a 
victim of the child decoy and the expert little thief. 

Two flights further down they heard a man beating and 
cursing his wife. 

“There’s a specimen of marital bliss,” laughed the Major, 
“and yet, my dear Julian, you urge that a marriage once 
consummated should last forever.” 

“There are many exceptions to every rule,” replied Julian; 
“when I speak of marriage I mean the union of two 
rational, sound-minded beings, — such people can attain no 
more prodigious heights in this life than a marriage which 
lasts always, — it is the only form of sweet content and per- 
fect happiness this world affords.” 

Always, to me would be the greatest drawback,” returned 
the Major. “Just imagine a man being tied to a woman and 
after two or three years of supposed bliss — (during which 
time both have done their best to adapt themselves to each 
other’s ways) — they both realize fully that they are entirely 
uncongenial and unsuited to each other ! To continue 
longer as man and wife would be the greatest misery that 
could be inflicted upon two suffering mortals. Divorce to 
them would prove a blessing. You see, Jule, you and I look 
at life through different eyes.” 

They had now reached the street and were walking along 
the crowded thoroughfare in the direction of the Mission. 

“A man should absolutely know the woman whom he mar- 
ries before he takes the fatal step,” said Julian. 

“Oh, pshaw! That man never lived yet who thoroughly 
understood a woman,” laughed the Major. “Look around 
you at the young girls on this street; the unsophisticated 
would really believe them to be innocent as angels and yet 
nearly all are butterflies of villainy and bedizened courtesans 
of vice.” 


LIFE. 


137 


can point out many who are good,” replied Julian, 
firmly. 

“You don’t know them, Jule; women are all as sweet as 
sugar on the surface and we imagine that honey flows eter- 
nally from their dainty mouths. Live with them as man 
and wife and in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a 
thousand, you will find, when it is too late, that they are 
made of vinegar and gall.” 

“Did you ever stop to think why most women lose their 
sweetness?” questioned Julian. 

“Why, because it is their nature, I suppose,” replied his 
companion. 

“No, it is because they centre all of their sublime confi- 
dence, all of their implicit faith, all of their tenderness and 
devotion on a man, who promises to love, honor and cherish 
them, and only one in ten thousand remembers his oath 
three months after he has been wedded at the altar. A 
woman’s happiness lies in being thought indispensable to the 
man to whom she is bound, while he spends most of his time 
endeavoring to show her how absolutely unnecessary she is to 
his existence. That ''is why some women grow sour, my 
friend. Reform the men and the majority of the women 
will be what we like to paint them, — angels!” 

“Jule, you must be in love or you would never go on like 
that,” said the Major. “Well, if it is with your pretty ward, 
I congratulate you and I really think that you have found 
the one exception in a thousand. No one wishes you a 
greater measure of happiness than I, — and the man never 
lived who deserved it more than you.” 

They had arrived at the door of Julian’s home and the 
Major took his friend’s hand in his and shook it warmly. 

“Old fellow, you were intended for a man of family,” he 
said. “Life, gayety, cards, women, wine, clubs and other 
dissipations which I enjoy would make you miserable. I am 
unfit for marriage and know that I should be unworthy of 
the love of any honest girl. It is different with you. Marry 
soon, and let me dance at your wedding. Good night, old 


138 


LIFE. 


chap, may you soon be the happiest of benedicts, — while for 
my part, well, — a single life is all I covet.” 

He passed on down the street and Julian watched him 
musingly. 

“A single life,” he thought, “I can see no happiness in 
that. To have no one to share my pleasures and my joys! 
To have no one to live for, to honor, to cherish and esteem! 
To have no one cheer me when sorrow comes, no one to strive 
to be worthy of, no one in whom to confide !” He could 
imagine no life more lonesome, bleak and barren than the 
one that had been chosen by his friend. 

The gas in the front room had just been lit, he looked 
towards the window and saw the shadow of Mary’s form 
distinctly outlined upon the curtain. 

“God bless you, little girl!” he murmured, and he stood 
gazing at the shadow as one in a dream. 

Since he had learned, three months ago, that she did not 
love him, he had never again, in conversation with her, even 
remotely referred to the subject which filled his soul and was 
more to him than life. 

“And she doesn’t even know of my great love,” he thought. 
“If I owned the world, I would give it gladly to go in there 
and throw my arms around that sweet form, to kiss her lips, 
to tell her of my love, to let her know that I am a creature 
of life and blood, and not the icicle I strive so hard to appear 
when in her presence! Yes, I’d give the world, — but I’m 
afraid — ^I doubt, — I doubt!” 

********** 

A few minutes later, he took the latch key from his pocket, 
opened the front door as silently as possible, went on tip- 
toe to his study and sat down and thought. 

Could he have looked into the future, he would not have 
hesitated, but would have asked her then to have been his 
wife and what a volume of human suffering might have been 
prevented if he had asked her and if Mary had answered — 
Yes! 


CHAPTEE XIV. 


A STOLEN HOUR IN ACADIE. 

“More happy than the gods Is he, 

Who, soft-reclining, sits by thee ; 

His ears thy pleasing talk beguiles, 

His eyes, thy sweetly dimpled smiles. 

This, this, alas, alarmed my breast. 

And robbed me of my golden rest ; 

While gazing on thy charms I hung, 

My voice died faltering on my tongue.” 

— Sappho. 

The autumn days were drawing to a close, and still Wil- 
frid lingered at the little parsonage, to whose shelter his 
brother had welcomed him so cordially nearly two months 
before. 

Julian was surprised at this new phase in Wilfrid’s char- 
acter and secretly wondered at the cause of it. He, who 
had been a devotee at Pleasure’s Shrine, was strangely con- 
tent to linger at the very threshold of her wildest revels, and 
yet remain apart, finding perfect happiness, apparently, in 
the shabby little study of the Slum Mission. 

While the weather had remained warm, he had lain all 
day on a couch near the latticed window, within whose shady 
coolness Mary sat and sewed. He had protested so much 
against being left alone, that Julian, kindly humoring the 
whim of the convalescent, had suggested that Mary remain 
at home more frequently, to cheer him with her gentle 
presence, — unmindful that this sacrifice on his part, — de- 
prived him of a valuable assistant in his daily duties. At 
first, these absences had only been occasional, but gradually 
they became more frequent, until it was the exception, not 


140 


LIFE. 


the rule, as heretofore, that she accompanied him on his 
daily rounds. In the sick room and the squalid homes of 
his forlorn district, the bright face and sweet voice of Mary 
was sadly missed. And Julian? Unconsciously to himself, 
the days seemed to grow longer and his burdens heavier. 
But the idea of blaming either Mary or Wilfrid never en- 
tered his mind. Self-abnegation was second nature to him, 
and even when he felt his present loneliness most keenly, he 
reproached himself bitterly for his selfishness and lack of 
generosity towards the two so dear to him. He would ex- 
cuse them fifty times a day, arguing that, of course, it was 
awfully hard on a strong, restless chap like Wilfrid to be 
confined to a couch all day, and only natural that he should 
want some companionship other than poor, old Betsy^s. 
And Mary, poor girl, she was so young to be a constant wit- 
ness to the dark side of life, no wonder she found it pleas- 
anter on the long, hot days, to listen to Wilfrid’s bright 
chatter in the cool little study, than to be out with him in 
the wretched, stifling quarters of his parishioners. And, 
again, he would think, that it was a kindly interposition of 
heaven, to save Mary from contracting the fever, which 
was the summer’s scourge. How selfish and thoughtless he 
had been of the child! It was strange that not the faintest 
idea of the real state of affairs had ever occurred to him. 
He could not read another’s love story and yet he was a 
lover! There were two reasons which might have accounted 
for this blindness; his love and confidence in Wilfrid, and 
the fact that his brother was a married man. As for Mary, 
why he would as soon have doubted the purity and truth of 
that other Mary, the Holy Mother of Mankind! 

His nobility of character impressed itself upon all with 
whom he came in contact. His faith in mankind was un- 
bounded and this freemasonry of trust was the “open se- 
same” to the hearts of his most depraved parishioners. 

So the young minister pursued his daily round of un- 
pleasant duty and the young soldier stayed at home and 
told tales of love and adventure to the simple English girl 


LIFE. 


141 


whom Julian had taken to his hearth and heart, and her blue 
eyes gradually lost their calm look of innocent wonder and 
glowed and deepened by turns as a new world was thus un- 
folded to her imagination. Love is an intoxicant. It de- 
prives one of reason and judgment, just as the first sip of 
the “fruit of the vine.” In its first stages, it enfolds one in 
a cloud of hazy happiness, nothing is clear, nothing else 
matters, the world outside is an uninteresting nebulous af- 
fair which seems a long way off. At this period, one drinks 
half boldly, half affrightedly at the fountain of bliss. Then, 
deeper and deeper, until the past, looking back on its grey 
nothingness, was merely an existence groping about in a 
cold darkness, waiting for the light of love to touch the im- 
mortal spark within the soul and give it life. 

And, with the rosy dawn of this dream of love, is bom all 
good things, — the sun is ever bright, the skies are always 
blue, the world, an Eden filled with the music of the spheres, 
canopied with the glory of the stars, lighted by the pale 
radiance of the moon. And the morning stars sing together 
and their song is of love, love, love; love glorious, love un- 
utterable, until the world is born anew and filled with bliss. 
Everything is forgotten, all else ceases to be, all else is 
nothing. But there are only a few, a favored few, who find 
the afterglow of happiness and with fond memory turning 
backward, realize that the beautiful present is but a con- 
trast to the sombre loveless past. Others find in this rhap- 
sodic dream only poignant anguish and dwell eternally in 
the shadow of “what might have been,” hoping against hope 
for the return of their lost happiness. But, Mary, peering 
with innocent delighted eyes through the gate of the Garden 
of Love, which seemed so bright and fair, never doubted that 
once inside its magic portals she would be one out of many 
thousands, who would find its pleasures everlasting. 

Once she had called Wilfrid’s attention to a passage in a 
poem, and as he had leaned over to read it with her, his 
breath had fanned her cheek, and his fingers, as he had 
turned the leaves, touched hers. She had noticed a strange 


142 


LIFE. 


pallor overspread his face at the contact, and an exquisite 
thrill had vibrated through her whole being. Then both had 
grown strangely still, and the poem had been forgotten in the 
silence which followed. 

To-day, it was drearily gray and chill outside, as late 
autmnn days so often are. But, within the little study it 
was warm and cheerful from a bright wood fire which burned 
in the open grate. Wilfrid was able to be up and about, 
although still slightly lame. One of Julianas parishioners was 
very ill and he had gone out directly after luncheon. He had 
wanted Mary to go with him, not for his own pleasure, but 
because he thought her presence would be a pleasure to old 
Aunt Jemima. When he had been there in the morning the 
aged negress had been well nigh distraught with grief over 
the approaching death of her “lil Ephraim.’’ Her eyes had 
been red with weeping and her black face had taken on that 
strange ashen hue peculiar to her race when undergoing in- 
tense suffering. The consumptive had been dying since 
morning when his mammy had conie for the minister, and 
Julian had remained at his bedside all the fore part of the 
day. When he came home for luncheon he found Mary at 
the little organ, singing. Wilfrid lay back in a big chair 
with half-closed eyes and smiling lips, listening with intense 
enjoyment to the simple, Scotch ballad. 

Not wishing to break in on the song, Julian remained 
standing in the shadow of the doorway until its finish; — 
“Sing that last verse again, I like it immensely,” murmured 
Wilfrid, ere the vibration of the last chord had died away. 
A blush mounted to Mary’s cheek as she instantly complied 
with his request. 


"Wr lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, 
Frae aflf its thorny tree, 

And my fause luver stau’ the rose 
But left the thorn wi’ me.” 


“Will your love be a-coming by and by, Mary?” asked 
Wilfrid when she had ceased singing. 


LIFE. 


143 


“How can I tell, I do not dream of such things yet,” she 
answered nervously. 

Wilfrid’s smiling eyes clouded. “Of course not, how could 
you?” he said. “You’ve only known Jule and me, so far. 
I suppose your ideal is far ahead of either of us. Though,” 
he added, “I had a sort of sneaking idea that Jule might 
have been the lucky fellow on the inside track.” 

Julian stood as one paralyzed. The unexpected turn of 
the conversation rendered him powerless either to move or 
speak. Mary’s next words struck a chill to his heart. 

“Julian?” she said; “why, Julian is my brother. Of course, 
I love him.. Every one does. No one could help it who 
knew him.” 

“Ah! I thought so,” said Wilfrid, very low. 

“Thought what ?” questioned the girl, with wondering eyes. 

“That you loved my brother,” he replied. 

“Why, of course I do,” said Mary, “better than any one in 
the world — almost.” 

“Oh! then there is some one else; in the old country, per- 
haps ?” 

Mary looked up in surprise. The hidden meaning in Wil- 
frid’s words was totally lost upon her. Julian quietly stole 
away to his little room with a strange new pain tugging at 
his heart. He could not have told why. He hardly knew 
himself. He felt a sudden resentment toward Wilfrid and 
for one moment the unholy desire to send his brother out of 
the house was strong within him. He wished to reproach 
Mary for something, he scarcely knew what. He was an- 
noyed at her blushes when she had complied with Wilfrid’s 
request to repeat her song. After all, ministers or no min- 
isters, all men are human ‘and when in love, strangely alike. 
Julian truly loved the innocent orphan girl he had be- 
friended. He had taught her all that she knew, had trained 
her gentle and sympathetic nature to respond to a great and 
beautiful calling. Day by day, she had grown into his heart 
and become a part of his life. He had grown to have no 
thought of the future, save with her. He gave her all the 


144 


LIFE. 


wealth of his great affection, stored for years in his starved 
heart. All that good which had been denied him in a 
mother, she embodied, in addition to her own worth and 
sweetness. So fair, so sweet, aye, almost holy was she to 
him, that no wonder Wilfrid’s idle talk made his heart hot 
and angry. That blush of Mary’s had not seemed, somehow, 
quite suited to her or to the circumstances of their relation- 
ship. He would not admit this last fact to himself and 
could not understand his almost unconscious resentment 
toward the girl. In half an hour he decided that he was ^‘a 
miserable, jealous fool” and had dishonored his two nearest 
and dearest in his thoughts. Sincerely penitent, he went 
down to the little study and joined them, showing himself 
kinder and more affectionate than usual toward both of 
them. 

“Mary,” he said, at the cheerful mid-day luncheon, as the 
girl poured tea for them, “would you care to go out with me 
this afternoon? Aunt Jemima, poor soul, is half crazy with 
grief for Ephraim, who will not live the night through. She 
asked me if you would come, as I was leaving this morning.” 

“Yes, Julian; certainly,” said Mary, unhesitatingly, but 
in no way, enthusiastically. 

“Say, Jule, put in Wilfrid, “don’t you think it’s pretty 
risky business, carrying Mary into all those hovels of filth 
and contagion? By gad, you’ve got an easier conscience 
than I’d have about it I” 

“Why, what do you mean, Wilfrid?” asked his brother in 
surprise. 

“Well, these poor creatures must ^shuffle off the mortal 
coil,’ — as we all must, in time, — ^but there’s no use subjecting 
Mary to a desperate illness or perhaps invalidism on ac- 
count of it.” 

“I never take Mary where there is any contagion,” said 
Julian, a little hurt. 

“Not when you know it,” argued this brother,” but you 
can’t always tell. Now, there’s danger in this consumptive 
boy.” 


LIFE. 


145 


“I think not, Wilfrid. In constantly nursing a case, there 
might be, but not in an hour’s call, such as Mary makes.” 

^‘Well, I know damned well there is,” insisted Wilfrid, 
hotly. ‘^You remember Bob Remington? Well, that was 
the way he took tuberculosis. He visited his brother who 
had it, and died.” 

“In his case it was hereditary. But if you think there 
really is danger to Mary, I will not insist. Of course, she 
should always be my first consideration,” with a fond smile 
at the girl opposite him. 

So it was decided that she should remain at home. Julian 
finished his luncheon and went to the door, Mary following 
to bid him good-bye. She felt a little ashamed and sorry 
that she had not gone with him, as her conscience dictated. 

“Julian,” she said, just as the minister was closing the 
door. He paused to hear what she would say. He hoped 
she had changed her mind and was going with him. It was 
just on the tip of her tongue to say “I will go; wait until 
I get my coat and hat.” But ere the words could leave her 
lips, she heard Wilfrid in the study, singing. It was the 
little ballad she had sung to him in the morning — 

“Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose 
Frae afi it’s thorny tree ” 

She paused for a moment, listening, while good and evil 
fought their first battle for supremacy. Julian read her 
thoughts. It was a simple enough thing to do. She had 

said, “Julian, I will ” so impulsively and penitently. 

Then came the music from the study, and she had changed 
color and stopped, nervously locking and unlocking her 
fingers. 

“Well, what is it, dear?” he asked, encouragingly. 

“I will have your dinner ready early, to-night, and have 
■something that you like very much, so be in time,” she said. 
It was a little thing, but it cut Julian to the heart. It was 
not the mere question of her going or staying. It was the 


146 


LIFE. 


selfishness, the weakness of character it revealed. Her own 
pleasure before the need of another! It was a bitter, bitter 
disappointment to the man who had endowed her with all the 
worthy attributes of perfect womanhood. At the first test, 
of what had seemed to him to be purest gold, the dross of 
her character had been shown him. Julian told himself not 
to judge her, yet. ^‘She is so young, and her youth seeks a 
little pleasure now and then. No wonder she grasps at it, 
like a child,’’ he thought, excusingly. “I cannot expect her 
to look at life as I do, it would be unreasonable, so why 
should I blame the poor child for a fault of which she is not 
even conscious?” 

Meanwhile, Wilfrid was restlessly awaiting Mary’s return. 
He had allowed himself to become half-way infatuated with 
the pretty, untaught orphan. It was propinquity, more than 
affection. Environment is so often responsible for just such 
ill-fated attachments. It had afforded him great pleasure to 
watch the pretty, earnest face of the English girl, during the 
long, idle days of his convalescence. He liked to talk to her 
of the great world of which she was so ignorant; to see her 
eyes widen and glow, as with breathless interest and parted 
lips she listened to his tales of love and adventure. He had 
thought from the first that she was ^^awfully pretty,” and had 
scored Julian for sacrificing her to his ideas of duty. 

Wilfrid’s feeling would, perhaps, have gone no further 
than kindly or affectionate interest, but that his vanity 
made him jealous of Mary’s love for Julian and her de- 
pendence on him. For the same reason it irritated him to 
hear Julian say, ^^Mary, get your hat, we must go to the 
hospital this afternoon, and when she obeyed instanly, leav- 
ing him to hours of dullness, he felt himself much slighted 
because she had not remained at home to talk to him. There 
was a certain novelty in meeting a girl so refreshingly in- 
nocent in this day and generation. In his own particular 
set, blushes were very rare, simplicity rarer; Marjory was the 
only exception he could recall. Perhaps that had been the 
reason of his friendship with the sweet, wholesome girl who 


LIFE. 


147 


had remained unspoilt and genuine among the worldlings 
who made up her list of acquaintances. It is often the case, 
that the men of most immoral character have the highest 
appreciation of really pure women. Wilfrid was one of this 
class. He was not naturally bad, but he had always been 
flattered and yielded to by the opposite sex, until his stand- 
ard of morality had become lowered and women he looked 
upon as playthings. Mary was following in the footsteps of 
a hundred predecessors. She was completely under the spell 
of his personal magnetism and it was so apparent that it was 
only natural that he should attribute to her the same femi- 
nine weaknesses that he had experienced with the others of 
her sex. In short, the fair sex had spoiled him, and the 
wonder was that he could outwardly preserve the attitude of 
naive unconsciousness of a fact which in his heart he knew 
so well. His vanity knew no bounds, yet he seemed to 
be as free from egotism as it was possible for a man to be.- 
His manner made every woman believe that he was genu- 
inely her admirer, and hers, alone. But, considering all 
things, he was not to be too severely blamed, for more than 
once, as in the case of the little Red Cross nurse, when he 
had seen a woman to whom he believed respect to be due, 
forgetting himself, he had avoided her, thus saving her from 
something her ignorance could not fathom. Had he not 
gone to Julian’s home on his return, all complications would 
have been avoided. When he had occasionally visited his 
brother, Mary had not especially attracted him. But in the 
tedious days of convalescence, Satan had an opportunity for 
idle hands, and her girlish innocence was like a challenge to 
his vanity. The fact that he was married, he ignored, for 
that wedding at Ballyhoo had never impressed him seriously, 
it had been such a strange unnatural affair that he could not 
realize that he was a benedict. Even had he been free, he 
would not have thought of making Mary his wife, though 
at this time, he had not gone that far into the matter. He 
was satisfied with the present state of affairs and enjoyed 
the good things of life as they came, without counting the 


148 


LIFE. 


cost to either himself or Mary. Like the famous Persian 
poet, his motto was: 

“Drink, for you know not whence you came, nor why^ 
Drink, for you know not why you go, nor where/' 

And drink, he did, from every well of pleasure, by the 
way. If he had any scruples at all, they were in regard to 
Julian. He felt that he was acting dishonorably and, with 
the strange contradiction of human nature, it made him 
angry with his brother. For several weeks, he had been 
holding himself in check in regard to Mary. But it was 
not his way to long deny himself anything that he desired, 
and she was an hourly temptation, — and Wilfrid was not 
strong. So it happened that instead of leaving when he 
recognized the danger signal, he staid on and on, until he 
tottered on the brink of disaster. He stood now, by the 
study window, moodily watching his brother go down the 
street, restless for Mary^s return. After a few minutes’ de- 
lay, she entered the room, having delayed to run up and 
stand before the tiny mirror over her washstand, long enough 
to fluff out the pretty flaxen curls as Wilfrid had once said 
he liked to see them. She blushed with the consciousness of 
her vanity, as she stood for a moment on the threshold, half 
ashamed and almost tempted to run away and smooth them 
back again in their wonted order. But as she hesitated, 
Wilfrid turned and saw her. 

“Jove!” he said, admiringly, “why don’t you always fix 
yourself that way. Now, that looks something like a girl 
should look.” 

Mary blushed a still deeper hue and neither spoke for a 
moment. Wilfrid broke the silence. 

“Mary,” he said, “do you like living down here? Do you 
enjoy this dull life, this constant round of visits to the sick, 
and all that?” 

“Why, I have never thought about it in that way,” she an- 
swered, surprised. 


LIFE. 


149 


“Somehow it doesn’t seem natural to me for a girl so 
young and pretty, to waste her days hobnobbing with the 
lame, the halt and the blind, subjecting herself to all sorts 
of disease, wearing plain, ugly dresses and growing old be- 
fore her time,” said Wilfrid. 

“Why, am I so different from other girls ? Are their lives 
so much happier than mine? I thought I was quite happy, 
here.” 

“Oh, well, of course, if you like it, it’s a different thing. 
I suppose you love Jule so much that you don’t miss the 
pleasures of which you are deprived.” 

“Why, of course I love Julian, dearly, but not knowing 
anything of the pleasures of which you speak, I have never 
felt the need of them,” she replied, slowly. 

“Although you are perfectly happy, surely you would en- 
joy driving in the park, in a pretty hat and gown, more than 
going down to Mulberry street, into some ill-smelling hovel, 
dressed in a plain, black dress ?” he questioned. 

Mary looked thoughtful. At the suggestion of the drive 
and the pretty gown, her eyes had glistened. At the remem- 
brance of many a disagreeable day or night spent amid the 
wretched poverty-stricken quarters of the lower city, she 
almost sickened, and the brightness died out of her face. 

Wilfrid watching her closely, marked the effect of his 
words, and inwardly rejoiced. Presently she smiled faintly 
and sighed. 

“What is the trouble?” inquired the young fellow sympa- 
thetically. 

“I was just thinking,” she answered, “that as long as I 
can never have such luxuries, as those other girls you know, 
it is useless for me to think of them, because it will only 
make me unhappy, and ” 

“And what?” 

“Ungrateful,” she finished. 

Nonsense! How, ungrateful?” he asked. 

“Ungrateful to Julian, who ” 

“Oh! Julian be hanged! No, no; I don’t mean that; of 


150 


LIFE. 


course, I don’t. Jule’s the best fellow in the world, but 
that’s no reason why you should give up your life to him,” 
argued Wilfrid. 

“Please, please don’t ever speak like that of Julian, again,” 
pleaded Mary. “He is so good and kind and truly unselfish. 
It makes me feel terribly to listen to it.” 

“I was wrong,” said Wilfrid, humbly. “I beg your par- 
don and his. Come, we won’t talk about it any more. Play 
for me. That little English song is all right.” 

“You aren’t angry with me, are you?” said Mary, implor- 
ingly. 

Wilfrid laughed, shortly. “Certainly not. Why should 
I be? You were quite right to defend your benefactor. 
Some day, I suppose you will both realize that the brother 
and sister gag is all off and that you’re in love with each 
other. Then you’ll marry and as the story books say, — ‘live 
happy ever after.’ You’ll make an ideal wife for him, going 
about helping him in his parish. There’ll be a house full 
of kids playing circus on that sofa of mine over there and 
you’ll tell ’em about the soldier uncle who used to lie on it, 
who went to war and got shot and is lying somewhere with 
his toes turned up to the daisies.” 

“Oh, don’t, don’t,” cried Mary, her eyes filled with tears, 
for his voice, which had been hard, had broken at the end of 
his speech and something told her that she had hurt him. 

“Forgive me,” he said, pretending not to understand her 
emotion. “I did not mean to speak lightly on a subject so 
sacred to you; I did not intend it, I assure you.” 

“It isn’t that,” said the girl, “but what you said will 
never be; believe me, it will not. I could never care for 
Julian in that way. I don’t know much about such things, 
hut I don’t believe I ever could.” 

“You think so, now, perhaps, but the time will come when 
you will change your mind and forget there’s any one else 
in the whole world,” he replied. 

“I could never forget you,” said Mary, “not if I lived a 
thousand years and married as many men.” 


LIFE. 


161 


‘‘You’re awfully good to try to make me feel better. I 
thank you and will remember it when I am thousands of 
miles away in a lonely camp,” he said. 

“Why do you have to go away so far ?” questioned the girl, 
tremulously. 

“Oh, I shall ask to be sent out to foreign service. There’s 
nothing to stay here for, now. It will be easier to be 
away,” he replied carelessly, but still with that little hurt 
note in his voice. ^ 

“Why, won’t your mother soon be back? Are you lonely 
for her, that you wish to leave?” she asked. 

“It isn’t longing for a fellow’s mother that makes him 
feel lonely or that drives him to the other end of the world,” 
he answered, looking deep into her eyes. 

“Who is it, then?” she questioned, almost afraid to under- 
stand. 

“Some one he wants and can’t have,” he said fiercely. 
“Some one who has come to be everything to him; some one 
who holds his heaven in her eyes, his life in her little hands ; 
some one who can make that life good or bad, happy as 

Paradise or more miserable than hell ” he paused a 

moment. Mary had closed her eyes and was very pale. The 
hands he had caught in his were fluttering pitifully in his 
strong, hot grasp. He went on more gently and his tender- 
ness thrilled the girl’s very soul. 

“There is always in the world of women, just one woman 
who is a man’s ideal. When he finds her, he knows it and 
he knows something else, too — that life won’t be worth the 
living without her, without her eyes to smile upon his 
through all the years, without her lips to cling to his own, 
her curls to caress, as her head lies on his breast, her body 
to nestle into his arms ” 

The girl beside him half opened her eyes and he saw a 
new light in them. She smiled faintly, strangely, as she 
swayed toward him. 

“Mary, — my love,” he whispered, as he caught her with 
fierce joy to his heart. “Ah, my darling; look at me! Say 


152 


LIFE. 


that you love me. Kiss me, sweetheart and I will believe.” 
The girl raised her head and looked at him. “I love you,” 
she said, simply, adoringly. He stooped and kissed the 
warm, sweet lips. 

‘^We both love, then, and the world is Acadie !” 
********** 

That evening Julian came home more tired than usual. 
He looked pale and ill. He was worn out with continuous 
vigils through long nights and weary days. The summer 
had been very hard on him. He had had no relief since the 
cooler weather had set in. Wilfrid watched Mary jealously, 
as she brought his slippers and persuaded him to lie down 
and rest before the evening meal was ready. The young 
minister thanked her with a pleased, grateful smile and did 
as she bade him. 

“How pretty we are to-night?” he said, noticing a blue 
ribbon snood in her flaxen hair. She blushed guiltily — he 
thought, innocently. 

“It is just six months since you brought me home,” she 
answered, “it is in honor of the occasion.” 

“It was sweet in you to remember it so prettily, he said, 
affectionately. “It makes me think you have been happy.” 

“I have, dear Julian,” she answered, feeling like a mur- 
derer of some innocent thing. She glanced at Wilfrid; he 
was scowling darkly. 

“Your father would be glad, could he see you to-night, 
dear,” continued the minister. 

The girl turned her head away that he might not read her 
face. 

“There, there,” said Julian, “I didn’t mean to pain you, 
dear. I only thought you’d like to think of how happy and 
proud he would be of his little girl.” 

To his surprise, Mary burst into tears. 

“Oh, don’t, don’t talk about him,” she sobbed wildly. 

“Forgive me,” he said sorrowfully, wondering what he had 
said or done to bring them forth. To his still greater sur- 
prise, the girl threw herself on her knees by the couch on 


LIFE. 


153 


% 

which he sat and caught his hand and pressed it against her 
burning face. 

“You^re the best man God ever made,” she said hysteri- 
cally, ‘^and — and I’m the worst — the happiest girl — ” 

“My darling,” said Julian, tenderly, as he kissed her fair 
head, “you are not the worst; you are 'the best. You deserve 
to be happy and every effort of my life shall be to keep you 
so.” 

“Ach! — cut it out!” growled Wilfrid to himself over in 
the corner. Aloud, he remarked, coolly : “Dinner’s been 
ready ten minutes and I’m starving. Don’t you think you 
could postpone the rest of that for a while?” 

Julian glanced at him, surprised. 

“Mo doubt, Betsy can give you your dinner, if you cannot 
wait to be served with us,” he remarked. 

Wilfrid swore under his breath and left the room. And it 
seemed that poor Julian was to be treated to a series of sur- 
prises this evening, for the door had not closed after his 
brother before Mary lifted her head and eyed him indig- 
nantly. “How very rude of you,” she said. never saw 
you so unkind, before. Come, let’s go,” and she rose and 
left the room. The young minister looked after her, dis- 
mayed. 

“What did I say? What did I do?” he asked himself 
wonderingly. Then he lay back wearily, his head and heart 
throbbing painfully. “I suppose I’m not quite well, to- 
night,” he said. 


CHAPTER XV. 


CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 

^ “By the streamlet sat a maid, 

Laving In its tide her foot ; 

And above her sang a bird : 

‘Maiden, do not roil the brook, 

’Twill no longer mirror heaven.’’ 

Then the maid looked up and said. 

With a tearful countenance : 

‘Trouble not about the brook : 

It will soon be clear again, 

But when you behold me here 
With a youth beside me say 
Unto him what you have said : 

‘Do not roil a maiden’s soul. 

It will never clear again. 

Never more mirror heaven.’ ’’ 

— Johann Ludvig Runeberg. 

It was Christmas night, and the whole world was wrapped 
in a soft mantle of white, glistening snow. The little, 
feathery flakes were still flurrying, scurrying, on their way 
to the happy earth, all agog with the Joyful spirit of the 
Christmas-tide. The usually crowded streets were compara- 
tively deserted. Those with happy homes were gathered 
round the family hearthstone, while those not so fortunate, 
shared the yuletide festivities with friends. Strangers and 
visitors to the great city, lonely with sad memories of other 
happier anniversaries, found refuge in the theatres and other 
places of amusement in the earlier part of the evening and 
crowded the restaurants and cafes later on. Wilfrid, sev- 
eral weeks previously had moved up to a fashionable hotel, 
but still called almost daily at the little parsonage. He 
would have preferred remaining there, keeping his presence 
unknown to his friends and acquaintances, but his perfectly 


LIFE. 


155 


regained health offered no excuse for longer imposition on 
his brother’s hospitality. He spent the greater part of each 
day at the mission, leaving just before or immediately after 
Julian’s return for the evening meal. He had his head- 
quarters at the Army and Navy Club, where he restlessly 
strolled around, anxious to return to the shabby study where 
Mary spent her time. His friends often rallied him on his 
^^unquiet spirit,” accusing him of having at last become a 
victim to the little god. But Wilfrid denied, smilingly, as- 
suring them that he had been a captive ever since he had 
first laid eyes on womankind and had been held in “rosy fet- 
ters” ever since. 

“No,” he would then exclaim seriously, “I’m so deuced 
tired of laying around idle. I want to get back to my regi- 
ment and active service. Old McCutcheon thinks in a short 
while now I’ll straighten out all right; but up to the present 
time he thought it rather risky business for me to attempt 
anything strenuous,” at which the old officer had nodded ap- 
provingly, the young ones admiringly, and some jealously. 

On this Christmas morning, he had gone down to the little 
parsonage with his pockets full of gifts for Mary, Julian and 
old Betsy, for he was wise enough to keep in the good graces 
of the last important personage. When he reached there, he 
found they had all gone to church but old Betsy. Why he 
should resent their absence was a question, for of late when 
he was with Mary, she often wearied him, and more than 
once he had left the house disgusted with himself and de- 
termined never to return. But the next morning found him 
impatient at anything which threatened to prevent or delay 
his accustomed visit, and if Mary was not there, he grew 
jealous and angry. But these inconsistencies only fed his 
infatuation. The fact that Mary still held first place in 
Julian’s heart was the strongest tie that now bound him to 
her, otherwise he "would have gladly hailed any means to 
sever their relations and rejoin his regiment. But he real- 
ized that Julian might become a formidable rival in his ab- 
sence and as long as the contingency remained, her value 


156 


LIFE. 


was increased in Wilfrid’s eyes. Besides there was a certain 
personal pleasure in having any one so completely fascinated 
as Mary was. He could play at will upon every emotion in 
the girl’s soul. Her smiles, her tears were responsive to his 
every tone. A glance filled her with delight, a frown made 
her pale and still in fear of his displeasure. There was also 
a physical attraction about her. Ordinarily, in repose, she 
wearied him, but when she sat upon his knee and buried her 
pretty face on his breast, or wound her soft arms about his 
neck, he would grow intoxicated with the nearness of the 
fragrant, silky hair, the warm, sweet breath which came from 
between the red lips and fanned his cheek and he would 
gather her tightly to him and Mary would be gloriously 
happy and beautiful accordingly, and Wilfrid would kiss her 
eyes, her neck, her hair and lips. 

The fact of absolute possession, past and present, perhaps, 
held him more than anything else. Her heart was his, it 
had never been any one’s else, it never would be, and in mad 
moments he wanted her body as well. More than once he 
had fought back the mad temptation to take her away from 
Julian, and establish her some where, to be his body and 
soul. He was always glad afterwards when he had resisted 
and conquered this wild desire, for, in his sensible moments 
he realized that she was not his ideal and never would be. 
But he dallied on from day to day, letting events take their 
course. 

As he took from his pockets the gifts he had brought, and 
laid them down on the little study table, he fumed and fussed 
angrily. 

“Why did Mary go out ?” he said to old Betsy. 

“She went with Master Julian, sir, to the church, as every 
’onest Christian h’ought to do on Christmas mornin’.” 

“Well, if it’s so necessary, why didn’t you go, too?” 

“Aw, sir, an’ I’m puttin’ h’on my bonnet to go this very 
minute,” said she. 

“Aren’t you late ?” he asked. 

“No, sir, they went h’early, so as they could call and see 


LIFE. 


157 


them poor Riley creatures, who be well-nigh starved and 
frozed.” 

^‘Lovely idea for celebrating Christmas,” said AVilfrid, 
^‘I’ll bet a tenner Mary would have given her dinner to have 
remained at home. She might have done so any way; she 
must have known I would come.” 

don’t think as ’ow she knowed it,” said the old woman, 
“it’s strange the way she is these days. She don’t like to go 
h’out any more with Master Julian to comfort ’is sick and 
feed ’is poor. But she will stay be’ind and sit all h’alone 
and quiet like in the study when you h’aint ’ere, and ofFen 
I’ve watched ’er at the window, gazen’ feverish-like at every 
one as passed by on the street.” 

“Perhaps, she isn’t well,” ventured Wilfrid. 

The old woman gave him a quick, shrewd glance. 

“Oh, it’s well enough she is in ’er body,” she said, “but 
h’it’s sick o’ her ’eart she be, I fears.” 

“Nonsense,” said Wilfrid, flushing a little in spite of him- 
self. 

“Aw, mebbe so,” said Betsy, “but more’n likely mebbe 
not.” 

“Well, I shan’t wait for them,” said he, anxious to cut 
short the conversation with the observing old woman. “You 
can say that I came and left these little tokens with best 
wishes for a merry Christmas. There’s something for you 
in the bunch, Betsy, so good-bye. You may say I may be 
back to-night, but not sure; lots of engagements, etc.; may 
not have the chance to come around again, but will if I pos- 
sibly can, — so long.” 

“Aw,” said Betsy, as she watched him swing gracefully 
down the street, “h’it’s too grand ’e h’is for the likes o’ ’er, — 
and she, poor child, cannot see h’it. H’I’d tell Mr. Julian 
if I dared, but I darsen’t. ’E wouldn’t believe me, and h’it’s 
too late now to stop their lovin’; hit’s something you can’t 
stop no ’ow. They’re both good children, so I won’t fret. 
I’ll just bide my time and mebbe he’ll go h’off again to the 
wars, then things will properly h’adjust themselves.” 


168 


LIFE. 


Meanwhile Wilfrid betook himself to the Club. It was 
pretty well deserted, only two or three for-the-time-being 
homeless wanderers, sat about reading the latest military 
magazines, discussing the Philippine issue or writing letters 
to distant sweethearts and wives. When Wilfrid entered, 
several of the young fellows set up a hue and cry. 

“Hello, McDonald, just going in to have drinks; come 
along, won’t you?” 

“Much obliged, old chap, just what I would have suggested 
if you hadn’t been ahead of me; I’ve gotten up an elegant 
thirst, somehow.” 

^Tarson been salting you down?” laughingly inquired 
little Burt of the 4th. Burt had the happy faculty of being 
able to say all sorts of things for which any one else might 
reasonably have expected a good licking, or at least an un- 
pleasant calling down. • 

This light allusion to his brother, coming from any other 
person would have aroused Wilfrid’s indignation, but he 
only laughed at the little cavalryman sitting astride a corner 
of the library table. 

“No, sonny,” he replied, “the parson is always so busy 
hunting for faults of his own — ^which he doesn’t possess — 
that he can’t see the mote in his brother’s eye.” 

“He’s a bully, good fellow,” said the little chap admiringly. 

“The best man I ever knew,” added Williamson, of the 
“8th,” whose endorsement from his senior officer for con- 
spicuous gallantry had read : “One of the bravest and ablest 
men in the service and worthy of promotion.” 

“Thanks, old fellow !” exclaimed Wilfrid, impetuously, 
gratefully offering his hand, which Williamson took smil- 
ingly and shook heartily. Burt looked aggrieved. 

“/ said he was bully good,” he reiterated. 

“Did you? Ah, thanks!” said Wilfrid and he laughingly 
extended one finger. 

“Come, fellows,” he added, “it’s up to me. We’ll have 
drinks on the strength of all this taffy.” 


LIFE. 


159 


The crowd betook themselves to the “Eeservoir,” as Burt 
nicknamed the bar and Wilfrid ordered for the whole party. 

“How!” they all cried simultaneously, clinking glasses. 

It was a jolly crowd, and as they warmed up under their 
frequent libations, they became happy, garrulous or irritable 
as the case might be. 

“Say, fellows, have you heard the news about Wingate of 
the 8th?” asked McIntyre, suddenly. 

“No, what is it?” they answered in chorus. 

“Who is Wingate ?” questioned a young naval officer. 

“First Lieutenant of the 8th,” replied McIntyre, “every- 
body thought he was a fine chap, had me fooled to a stand- 
still. Good-looking, old family, lots of the coin behind him, I 
understand. Married some Cuban girl secretly, a half-breed, 
while there with the troops. She and her father were very 
good to him when he was sick with the yellow fever or 
something of that sort; he lost his head, imagined he was in 
love and was married to her by a Catholic priest.” 

“You dont say, why, I thought — ” interrupted Williamson. 

“Wait a moment, that’s what I’m coming to,” said McIn- 
tyre, “so did every one else Think’ that he had married old 
Leland’s daughter; fine old fellow, Leland, he was three 
years with us at the Academy, and his daughter was the 
sweetest little woman I ever knew. Must have been very 
sudden; every one was surprised when they heard Miss Mar- 
jory had married him — ” 

^^Marjory Leland!” almost shouted Wilfrid, springing to 
his feet. 

“Why, yes, hadn’t you heard it? It was in all the Army 
and Navy papers last week,” said McIntyre, surprised. 

“Good God!” ejaculated Wilfrid, staring blankly into 
McIntyre’s face. 

“Why, yes,” went on that officer, “they were married here 
in New York, about three weeks ago, and now it seems that 
the girl Wingate married in Cuba, and whom he had de- 
serted, has come to New York with her father and the priest 


160 


LIFE. 


who performed the ceremony, and they intend to indict him 
for bigamy.” 

^‘And Marjory, poor, little Marjory — what of her?” asked 
Wilfrid, hoarsely. 

‘‘God only knows,” answered McIntyre sadly. 

“She was the best girl I ever knew and I have known a 
great many,” said Wilfrid gravely. 

“Yes, and one of the prettiest,” said little Burt, regret- 
fully, “always looked like one of the fairy princesses you 
read about in story books', don’t you know.” 

“Yes,” said Fitzwilson, a classmate of Wilfrid’s, “and the 
way she could look up at you with those blue eyes of hers! 
Her folks were southerners, you know. I can hear her say- 
ing, now, ‘Good-bye, Mista Fitzwilson, I reckon you are glad 
of the chance to go down yondah and fight, but we will all 
be mighty glad when it’s all ovah and you all come back 
safe.’ That was on the last day, graduation day, you know. 
And she looked at me out of her eyes like her heart was 
breaking about us fellows having to leave.” 

Wilfrid went over and stood against the mantle, his head 
on his arm. He was thinking also of that last day, and he 
understood only too well “which fellow’s” leaving had filled 
the true heart with pain, the forget-me-not eyes with tears. 

The fellows looked at him and exchanged glances. 

“I knew he liked her pretty well,” said Fitzwilson, aside, 
“never guessed it was that bad — ” 

“Must be pretty hard hit,” said little Burt, with a mean- 
ing look at the bowed head. 

Williamson rose and went over to him and touched him 
on the arm. “Can I do anything for you, old chap?” he 
asked kindly. 

The young officer shook his head without raising it. 

“How strange it is,’^ said McIntyre, “that a good, true, 
virtuous, little woman like that, should catch it so fearfully 
tough, and hundreds of bad ones go scot free! Her life is 
ruined. Think, a wife of two weeks and yet, no wife; what 
a fate — my God!” 


LIFE. 


161 


^^Yes,” said Fitzwilson, “and one girl out of a thousand, 
whom I wager my last dollar, never had an evil or impure 
thought.” 

“How comes he didn’t get her?” queried Burt, indicating 
Wilfrid. 

“Lord knows, he has gotten every other woman I ever saw 
him look at. He’s a more attractive chap all round than 
W ingate ; they’re very much on the same order, however, very 
much the same style^of man.” 

“That’s singular,” said Fitzwilson, “you’re right. Now, I 
come to think of it, Wingate and McDonald are very like, 
but McDonald’s the best fellow all round.” 

“Well, no accounting for women’s tastes?” remarked 
McIntyre, sententiously. 

“Will one of you chaps give me another drink,” said Wil- 
frid, “I feel awfully unsteady.” 

“Don’t you think you need something else,” said William- 
son, seeing his overwrought condition. “Of course, it’s none 
of my business, but I hate to see you cut up like this ; would 
you like me to go home with you ?” 

“No, thank you, Williamson,” he answered, “just one more 
drink, a big one, if you please, and I’ll go down to Jule for 
the night. I — ^I- — have something to say to him — I — tell 
you, fellows, I — ^I’ve been a blackguard one too many times, 
I — I tell you it’s all my fault. Ah, thanks, Mac, draining 
the well-filled glass McIntyre gave him, “I tell you I’m going 
to — Williamson — did you say — where is the porter — I want a 
cab, — Ach, confound it!” as he stumbled over the hall rack. 
“You drink, boys, when I’m gone, drink — drink to Marjory. 
To Marjory, I said, not Mary, mind you. They’re alike, but 
with a difference, savey?” 

“How strangely he acted,” said McIntyre, when the door 
had closed behind him. “What did he mean d’ye suppose?” 

“I wonder who Mary is and what was all his fault,” piped 
in little Burt. 

“He probably meant that it was through some fault of his 
6 


162 


LIFE. 


that he and Marjory did not make it,” said Fitzwilson. 
know she liked him well enough.” 

“He probably didn’t mean anything at all, gentlemen,” 
said Williamson, gravely. “He had too many drinks aboard, 
was not himself and was talking at random,” and after that 
no one had any more to say. 

When Wilfrid reached the parsonage in the Club hansom 
he had hailed, he found Julian and Mary in the little study, 
sitting in silence on either side of the cheerful, open grate. 

He had fumbled five minutes at the front door before he 
found the bell, and as he came into the warmth and bright- 
ness of the room, he staggered slightly against a chair stand- 
ing near the door. He blinked and steadied himself, laugh- 
ing strangely. Mary and Julian both rose to their feet and 
rushed towards him. 

“Oh, he is ill,” cried Mary; but Julian, who had reached 
him first and caught the odor of the liquor on his breath, 
turned and spoke to her more sharply than he had ever done 
before. 

“Go upstairs, Mary,” he said, “he is not ill, I will call you 
if I want you.” 

“Oh, Julian, let me stay, don’t send me away,” cried the 
girl, bursting into tears, “I understand, but I — don’t care, 
and I don’t want to leave him — like this.” 

Wilfrid looked at her unsteadily. 

“Go away,” he said, not unkindly, “I want to talk to Jule.” 

She gave him one look and left the room with a half-sup- 
pressed sob, while the young minister, with his heart aching, 
assisted his brother to a seat and gently inquired what he 
could do for him. 

“Nothing,” said Wilfrid, greatly excited, “you’ve done — 
(hie) — too much already — and that’s what I’m here for; to 
tell you — (hie) — just what I am, just what a damned, dirty 
blackguard and scoundrel I’ve been. I— (hie)— I—” 

“Stop I” said J ulian, raising his hand to silence him. “In 
your present condition I will not hear a word of what you 
have to say.” 


LIFE. 


163 


“But you must, you shall,” argued Wilfrid excitedly. 

“1 will not,” was the reply. 

“I’ll tell you (hie) anyhow, whether you will or not; I’ve 
— (hie) — been a damned blackguard! I’ve been worse; — 
(hie) — I’ve been — ” 

“Silence I” commanded Julian, in a tone that had its effect 
on Wilfrid in spite of himself. He stopped and sat gazing 
in blear-eyed uncertainty and astonishment at his brother. 

“Do you think,” said Julian, “that I would listen to any 
derogatory confession which you might make while liquor 
has the mastery over your brains ? That I would let you tell 
me anything now which you would probably regret when you 
are yourself again?” 

“But I won’t,” said Wilfrid, “I’m not drunk. I’ve had a 
— (hie) — few, but I know what I’m talking about as well as 
you do, and I tell you, it’s something I’ve had half a mind to 
tell you for a long time; something I want to tell you, some- 
thing I must tell you. I’ve acted dishonorably and beastly, 
— (hie) — and you must listen to me, now.” 

“And if I did,” replied his brother, “I would be so much 
worse than anything you could call yourself, that I would 
never have the right to the name of man again, much less an 
honorable one.” 

“Well,” said Wilfrid, the warmth of the room rendering all 
things somewhat hazy to him, “of course, if — I — say — (hie) 
— well, isn’t it awful about Marjory? Awful?” 

“Who is Marjory? What of her?” questioned Julian, 
gravely. 

“What an awful ass you are, Julel Pardon my — er — 
(hie) — French; but it’s a fact.” 

The minister made no reply; he saw how much under the 
influence of liquor his brother was, and knew that any dis- 
cussion now would be worse that useless, so he held his peace, 
staring with sombre, pained eyes, into the open fire. 

But Wilfrid was not to be silenced. He was one of those 
people who are naturally quiet when under the influence of 


164 


LIFE. 


drink, except when started on an argument, in which case 
he insisted on continuing it until hushed. 

“They’re all alike,” he said. “Women; Kipling struck it 
— (hie) — about right; The Colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady, 
— sisters under their skins,’ eh?” 

“I do not agree with you,” said Julian, soberly. He spoke 
involuntarily; his thoughts with the girl above. 

“I think woman God’s best creation!” 

“Deuced funny think! I say, Jule — (hie) — you’ve got 
another coming,” replied his brother. 

“Why, so?” said the minister. 

“Oh, nothing; I was — er — merely recalling some ‘crea- 
tions’ of my acquaintance,” answered Wilfrid. 

“Well, we won’t discuss the question further,” said Julian. 

“Wise boy !” laughed Wilfrid, adding sarcastically, “you — 
(hie) — have got a too damned weak argument for the de- 
fense.” 

“Oh, I know ’em!” he went on, after a moment. There’s 
one of your ‘creations’ in every thousand; Marjory was one 
of them! The rest are a lot of refuse kneaded into shape.” 

“The result of the rottenness of men of your condition 
and calibre,” said the minister sternly. “Half the women in 
the world who have gone wrong, have fallen before they were 
out of their teens, the vicitms of just such men as you. God 
made them the weaker sex, a fact of which the stronger 
daily take advantage, to their shame and woinan*s ruin.” 

“Say, Jule, you’re rather hard on a fellow, don’t you think? 
I’m not far wrong when I say that the women are often more 
to blame than the men. Now, I know from personal ex- 
perience, there are car loads of women who have tried to 
throw themselves at my head — (hie) — and I wouldn’t stand 
for them for various reasons; some, because I didn’t like; — 
one, because — ^I liked too much. I know I’ve got a pretty 
gay record along that line, but one thing I will say for my- 
self, I was never the first to lead a girl down the wrong path. 
They have always come nearer leading me.” 

“I am glad to hear you say so,” replied his brother, 


LIFE. 


165 


frankly. ^‘Forgive me, I was wrong to speak to you as I 
did, but it was involuntarily, and in behalf of all woman- 
kind in general and Mary in particular, Mary, who is so 
sweet and pure and innocent of all knowledge of wrong- 
doing, that for me, she stands for the ideal of the blessed sex 
of motherhood and all things holy.” 

^‘Yes, — Mary, of course, — I see,” said Wilfrid, unsteadily, 
“and that was what I — I wished — to — to say to you, Jule. 
Mary is the dearest, best little girl in the world, and it has 
been all my fault, I tell you, — all my fault, and I’m a 
damned scoundrel, I tell you.” , 

He had blurted out what was on his mind before Julian 
could stop him. The young minister’s heart contracted with 
a sudden horrible fear, his face went white and great beads 
of perspiration stood out on his forehead. 

“What — what — do you — mean?” he gasped hoarsely. 

“For God’s sake, old chap, don’t look like that,” cried Wil- 
frid. “It’s nothing, — nothing; — the girl’s all right. Only 
I’ve been a fool and I wanted to tell you and get it off my 
conscience; but, the girl’s all right, I swear it!” 

“Thank God!” almost sobbed Julian, as his tense form 
relaxed and he lay back in the chair, from which he had 
risen in his excitement. 

“I know I’ve been a beastly cad,” said Wilfrid, accusingly, 
“a dirty, beastly cad, but I really thought I loved the girl; 
she is pretty and sweet and somehow I lost my head, — just 
as Wingate did, I suppose. Poor, little Marjory! And 
Mary—” 

The minister rose wearily. “Stop!” he said; “I will not 
hear what you have come to tell me to-night; if you will re- 
turn when you are quite yourself, I will listen to you, — 
and — ” hesitating a moment, — “I expect you to do so. Then I 
shall demand a full explanation of what I have unwillingly 
heard to-night.” 

He opened the door and Wilfrid passed out into the dark- 


ness. 


CHAPTEK XVI. 


A STORM AND A WRECK. 

“Love not, love not. The thing you love may change, 

The rosy lips may cease to smiie on you ; 

The kindiy, beaming eye grow cold and strange, 

The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. 

Love not, love not.” 

Caroline Elizaheth Sarah Norton. 

It was the last evening of the old year and its murky 
shadows were settling over the great city. Along the narrow 
streets of the lower east side a young man, attracting con- 
siderable attention by his dress and general bearing, walked 
quickly. 

When he came to a certain small frame house, set in a 
tiny plot of snow-covered ground, he paused and gazed in- 
tently at the dark windows, endeavoring to see some signs of 
life about the place. 

He opened the small gate, and closing it softly behind him, 
entered the front door with a latch-key. 

Those who had watched his progress thus far with curi- 
osity, would have been still more surprised at his actions 
once inside the little parsonage, for such it was. 

He tip-toed from the kitchen to the tiny garret, and find- 
ing no one at home, he returned to the minister’s study. 
This was dark, save for a few crimson coals, burning low in 
the open grate. 

He pushed a chair into the narrow curtained recess near 
the window and sat down. His face betokened a restless ex- 
pectancy and his whole bearing was nervous in the extreme. 

It was Wilfrid. Since that unlucky Christmas night, he 
had not been to his brother’s home. 


LIFE. 


167 


His drunken courage, or remorseful penitence of the week 
before, when he had left the fellows “wondering” at the club, 
had worn off with the influence of the hour. 

He had avoided the explanation demanded by his brother, 
all week long. Three times had Julian called at his hotel, 
and as many times he had been reported absent — ^his where- 
abouts unknown. 

He had thought the situation over carefully the morning 
after the interview with Julian. He had decided that the 
best way out of the whole affair was to follow the maxim, 
“Least said, soonest mended.” 

There had really been nothing reprehensible in his rela- 
tions with his brother’s ward. Of course, he had been a 
“cad,” he acknowledged as much to himself. But he would 
make what reparation he could. He would discontinue his 
visits to the parsonage, sacrificing all personal inclination 
and thus end the whole affair. He would soon be ordered 
away for an indefinite length of time, anyway. He would 
forget — and she — well, he supposed she would forget, too, at 
least, so he told his conscience, while it mockingly gave him 
the lie. 

“Anyway,” he said, ending his self-arraignment, “it will 
all come right in course of time. She will marry Jule; he 
will be happier if he never knows and she will never tell him. 
So why should I? What will be the good of it? It would 
only make him miserable.” 

He would have much liked to remember just what he had 
said to his brother that night. His recollection of the con- 
versation was very hazy. He knew there must have been 
something serious, because there was one thing he remem- 
bered distinctly. It was the expression on the minister’s 
face when he asked him “what he meant” in his reference to 
Mary. 

He wanted to see Mary very much. He could find out 
through her how Julian felt. And then he missed her a 
little. She had filled a certain place in his heart and de- 
sires. But his experience with Marjory was not forgotten 


168 


LIFE. 


and he resolved not to have anything with which to reproach 
himself in this case. So he hung about the club; read a 
little — ^he was too restless to sit still long, — drank a good 
deal,-— something he never did to excess before — played bil- 
liards, poker, or, as he expressed it, ^^did any old thing that 
came his way,” until the week had almost dragged by. 
Never had time hung so heavily on his hands and he hailed 
the dawn of the seventh day with unconcealed joy. It was 
the close of the old year and he would wait no longer. It 
seemed impossible to get the thought of Mary out of his 
mind. He felt that he must see her, and determined ^^to 
face the music,” he started for the parsonage. 

On the way down, he decided that, perhaps, his first plan 
to see her alone before going to Julian was the wiser one. 

‘‘That’s what I’ll do,” he thought; hence his peculiar ac- 
tions on his arrival at the little mission home. He would 
sit in the shaded window nook and take chances on Mary 
coming in first. Something told him that she would and he 
concluded to risk it. 

He had only waited a few moments when some one 
entered the room. Whoever it was walked over to the 
fire-place. Wilfrid strained his eyes trying to pierce the 
darkness and catch the outline of the figure. Finally, who- 
ever it was, stirred the fire and a momentary blaze lighted 
the room. His heart gave a great bound as in the passing 
flash, he saw it was Mary. In his delight at seeing her, he 
could not speak, but feasted his eyes on the lovely face in 
silence. 

She was wrapped in a long, black cloak, and as she threw 
the hood back from her soft, fair curls, he saw that she 
looked very frail and unhappy. 

She dropped in a low chair by the little centre table and 
laid her head on her arms, her face towards the fitful glow of 
the fire. 

“Another day,” she almost moaned, “another long, long 
day and he has not come. It is New Year’s eve, too, and I 
was sure he would not forget.” Two bright tears brimmed 


LIFE. 


169 


over and rolled down the thin cheek. Wilfrid could stand 
no more. 

“Mary,” he whispered softly, the tenderness in his voice, 
burning into the girPs very soul. She started violently, 
almost gasping for breath. Another moment and she was 
clasped in his arms, sobbing out the wretched loneliness of 
the past six miserable days, on his broad breast, while he 
kissed away the hot tears from her blua eyes and tenderly 
smoothed the tangled curls. 

“It has been so terrible,” she said between her sobs of joy; 
“Julian has been so strange and looks at me in a way that 
breaks my heart. You did not come, or send any word, and 
I did not know what to think, or hope, or fear. Once, I 
found courage to ask Julian why you did not come. He did 
not reply for a long time, and then said, ‘IFs best for us 
all that he should not, Mary.’ Oh, Wilfrid, how could you 
make me suffer so! I could not have hurt you like that, 
darling.” 

“Never mind, sweetheart. I’m a brute. Forget it all and 
be your old, happy self again, now I am here. Look up, let 
me see you smile,” playfully tilting her chin until her eyes 
met his. 

“You will never go away again for so long a time and not 
tell me, will you ?” pleaded the girl. “Promise me you won’t, 
dearest.” 

She looked very like Marjory had looked on that afternoon 
when she had turned her eyes from the blue of the distant 
hill, to look into his own. 

“No — that is to say, unless I am compelled to,” he ans- 
wered, lying a little shamefacedly. 

“Ah ! that is good of you, now I will not fret or worry ever 
again,” said Mary, happily, nestling closer to him with a 
contented little sigh. 

“Has Julian said anything to you about me?” asked Wil- 
frid, presently. 

“No, I have questioned him about you, but he would not 


170 


LIFE 


answer, yet, from the tone of his voice, I knew that he was 
hurt or displeased with you,” she answered. 

“Well, in that case, I guess I’d better not let him find me 
here. I hate to leave you so soon, sweetheart, but it is get- 
ting late and he and Betsy will be home in a little while, 
so I’d better be going.” 

Even as he spoke, they heard Julian’s latch-key in the 
front door. 

“That is he, now,” said Mary, paling slightly. For some 
reason Wilfrid grew suddenly strangely afraid to meet the 
man he had wronged. 

“Hide me somewhere, quick, Mary,” he gasped. 

“Here,” she whispered, excitedly, “go through the dining 
room and pantry to the back stairs and up to my room. It 
will be the only place. Hurry, hurry!” 

In a moment Wilfrid was gone; the next, Julian was in the 
room. In the half darkness he did not at first see Mary, who 
had resumed her seat by the fire and sat gazing into it as if 
she had been there for hours. 

“Ah,” said he, “all alone in the dark, dear?” He tried to 
make his voice as tender as of old in these days, but, some- 
how, a strained note had crept into it and could not be dis- 
guised. 

“Yes,” said she quietly, a little coldly, “I was thinking — 
and saving gas,” she added, with a short laugh. 

Julian bit his lip and turned to leave the room. It 
seemed, nowadays, that Mary’s lightest tone or word had a 
hidden meaning that cut him to the quick. 

“I will light it for you,” she said before he reached the 
door, suiting the action to the word. “There, is that bet- 
ter?” as the light flooded the room and revealed Julian’s 
tired face, so thin, so weary, and sadder than her own. 

“I was just thinking,” she continued, for the sake of some- 
thing to say. It was just the cue he wanted. 

“It seems to me you’re always thinking these days, dear, 
and the thoughts don’t seem to be very beneficial in any way. 


LIFE. 


171 


You are ill and unhappy. I wish you would speak some of 
your thoughts aloud and, perhaps, I could help you.” 

'Mary laughed. It was forced and hard and gave the lie 
direct to her words. 

^‘You are mistaken,” she said, am quite well and happy, 
I assure you.” 

“And yet even now, your eyes are red and your face pale 
with weeping,” returned Julian, looking straight at her. He 
did not like the lie. 

“How can I be anything but miserable when you look at 
me and talk to me like that,” she exclaimed unreasonably, 
bursting into tears. 

In a moment he was beside her. 

“Don’t, dear heart,” he pleaded, smoothing the bright hair 
he loved so well, “I am unkind, but I did not mean to be. 
And you are tired, ill, my poor, little girl.” 

“I am tired,” she sobbed pathetically, “and if you don’t 
mind. I’ll go to bed. I have a fearful headache.” 

“Certainly, dear, and I will send Betsy up with some 
supper and tq look after you.” 

“Oh, no, Julian, don’t, please,” she begged fretfully, 
^etsy talks so much she will make my head worse. I’d 
rather be quiet and alone and, perhaps, I can drop off to 
sleep in a little while.” 

“Very well, dear, just as you like. Good night,” said 
Julian. He sighed as the door closed after her and his eyes 
were very dark and tender. Then he thought of Wilfrid 
and an angry gleam lighted them, but only for a moment; 
the next the minister triumphed over the man. 

“Until seventy times seven,” he murmured to himself. 
********** 

Mary, glad to be released from Julian’s kindly question- 
ing scrutiny, had flown upstairs to her room. She had for- 
gotten for the moment that Wilfrid was there. Her only 
thought had been to escape from Julian and the suspicions 
her unstrung condition might arouse in him. She felt that 
if she had remained with him another moment she would 


m 


LIFE. 


have screamed, or fainted, or done something else equally 
demoralizing. As she reached her room, she remembered 
and hesitated a moment. Unconsciously she put her hand 
upon her heart to still its beating. Then, gathering courage, 
she opened the door and went in. 

Wilfrid stood leaning against the mantel, a favorite posi- 
tion with him and one that showed his tall figure to advan- 
tage. He smiled as she came in. 

‘‘You escaped sooner than I expected,” he said, smilingly. 

“Yes, darling, but you must go at once,” said she. 

“Go? Why?” asked the young man in surprise. 

“Because you must,” said Mary quickly, “because it isnT 
right for you to be here.” 

“Of course, I will go, if you are so anxious to get rid of 
me,” said Wilfrid, coldly, starting towards the door. 

“Oh, donT frown like that, donT speak to me like that. 
You know I am right, dearest. Don’t make it so hard for 
me to send you away,” cried Mary. 

“Then don’t send me away, dearest. Let me stay. There 
is no harm. You know I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.” 

“No, no, dearest, go, go, while I have the courage to say 
it,” she pleaded. For answer he caught her in his arms. 

“Listen,” he said, seating himself and pulling her on his 
knee, “Jule and I had a quarrel Christmas night. He is 
very angry with me. Jule is a noble fellow, but he is a man 
and has an awful temper when he is roused. I am no angel 
myself, as you know. If I go down now, we will probably 
have some hot words. This had better be avoided, as it 
would do no good and might end in a serious difficulty. You 
would feel terribly then, wouldn’t you?” 

“You promise to go as soon as everything is quiet, Wil- 
frid ? I cannot bear the thought of trouble between you and 
Julian, or of harm coming to you,” said Mary, clinging to 
him. 

“Ah, that’s my sweet, sensible, little girl,” replied Wilfrid, 
joyfully kissing her; then he added jealously; , 

“You are sure it isn’t anxiety for Jule that is making 


LIFE. 


173 


you let me stay, in preference to a racket between us if I 
should go down?” 

Mary looked at him reproachfully. 

^^Ah, how can you ask me that,” she said. 

cannot help it,” he answered. ^‘When a fellow loves a 
woman like I do you, the green-eyed monster never lets up.” 

^‘Do you love me so much?” she asked, wonderingly. 

“Better than anything on God^s earth,” he whispered, pas- 
sionately. 

A rap on the door made them both start to their feet. 

“Miss Mary,” came a thin voice from without. 

“Oh, mercy, it is Betsy. What shall I do, what shall I 
do?” she gasped, her eyes almost starting from her head in 
terror. 

“Be quiet, I will hide; get rid of her as soon as possible,” 
murmured Wilfrid, as he slipped behind the heavy chenille 
window curtain. 

“Oh, I can%” she uttered, the full sense of her position 
overcoming her. 

“You must” he said sternly. 

The old woman outside rapped again, more loudly this 
time. Mary opened the door, her hand to her head, her eyes 
half closed, as if she had been asleep. 

“Oh, it^s you, Betsy,” she said. 

“Yes, and I ’ave brought you a cup o’ tea. Master Julian 
said as ’ow you didn’t want nothin’, but I brought it h’any 
’ow.” 

“That was very kind of you. I will drink the tea right 
olf and then go back to sleep. Sleep, you know, is the only 
thing that eases my head,” said Mary, with a mighty effort 
to conceal the nervous haste which underlaid her words. 

“Well, I’ll just wait with you till you finish it and take the 
tray down with me, h’it will save a trip, which counts with 
me these days. My bones h’aint as young as they once was,” 
said the old woman, preparing to make herself comfortable 
in the big chintz-covered chair before the fire. 

“Oh, no, Julian will need you,” hastily, “there, gulping 


174 


LIFE. 


the hot tea down all at once, ^^IVe finished, take the tray and 
let me go to sleep. Good night. I^m much obliged to you 
for being so thoughtful. Good night,” and Mary almost 
pushed the wondering Betsy outside the door and quickly 
closing it after her, turned the key in the lock. 

‘^^Ow now, didn’t she h’act queer like,” said that person- 
age, coming to a standstill in her surprise. 

Suddenly she pricked up her ears. Surely there were 
voices inside and one of them a man’s.” 

^^Ah,” she said, “H’lm an’ h’old fool h’l h’am, always 
h’imaginin’ things,” and she hustled downstairs half angry 
with herself for being suspicious. 

Upstairs, in the room she had just left, Mary covered her 
face with her hands and hot tears of shame crept through 
her fingers. 

^^Oh,” she moaned, lied, I lied.” 

“It was a noble lie, my darling,” answered Wilfrid, put- 
ting his arms about her. “You lied for my sake, you 
know.” 

********** 

The gray dawn of the first day of the New Year had 
broken over the land. All the world was wrapt in slumber 
as a tall young fellow swung himself down with the aid of a 
lightning rod from the second story window of the little 
house known to the neighbors as “The Parsonage.” Behind 
the shutters which closed after him, a girl sat shivering 
with a something more terrible than any winter’s cold, with 
her hair dishevelled and clinched hands, and eyes whose 
horror told the story of a storm — and a wreck! 


CHAPTEE XVII. 


SWEETHEARTS AND WIVES. 

“Fruits of weeds deceitful do not die.” 

— Faria e Sanza. 

It was New Year’s night. The Club was bright with 
many lights and a general cheerfulness and good humor 
seemed to pervade the assembled crowd. 

They were the twelve who had elected to celebrate the day 
together. In other words, to eat, drink and be merry, mak- 
ing the most of their ill-timed exile from home and loved 
ones. 

The long table about which they were seated was brilliant 
with its cut glass and silver and its centre piece of fragrant 
American beauties. At either end of the festive board, a 
miniature flag-pole flew the Union Jack and the Stars and 
Stripes. The minutes flew by and spirits rose high and the 
wine ran as red as blood and as free as water. Presently, 
young Fitzmorris rose from his seat. “Come, boys,” he 
cried, “let’s drink in a worthy cause; let’s toast the power 
we all obey!” 

“Yes, yes;” answered half a dozen voices. “Give us a 
toast, Fitz; a toast!” 

To our Army and Navy!” proposed the young officer in 
a clear, ringing voice. “The greatest powers on land and 
sea, destined the greatest in the world to be!” 

“Bully!” cried little Burt of the 4th, “come McIntyre, 
you’re the ladies’ man; give us a toast to the ladies.” 

“Oh! no, you’re the ladies’ man; give us one yourself, 
sonny,” returned McIntyre. 

“To the girl I left behind me!” cried little Burt, ex- 
citedly, standing on his chair far above the rest. 


176 


LIFE. 


^^Which one, Burt?” laughed one of them. 

^^Yes,” said the usually grave commander of the Indiana, 
smilingly, “which one, Burt? La senorita, la signora, made- 
moiselle, fraulein, Yankee-doodle or Dixie?” 

“Oh! come, now, fellows; that isn’t fair,” replied Burt, 
resentfully. 

“I can go one better than that, myself,” said McIntyre. 

“To every lady in the land; God bless them!” 

They all drank with a right good will. Then Fitzmorris 
said, “come, Williamson; you’re the newest benedict, give us 
the old one, the best one, the one that fills all our needs, the 
one we all want.” 

“Oh! we’ll save the best till the last,” replied the young 
captain of the 5th; “some one give us a story.” 

“No, a song; a song! Give us ‘Mandalay,’ Campbell, and 
we’ll all join in the chorus.” 

Campbell rose at once; he was on the wrong side of the 
fence, and his voice was pathetic accordingly, as with tears 
in his brown eyes, he began in a really good tenor : 

“By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ eastward to the sea, 

There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I know she thinks o’ me ;’’ 

Little Burt gulped tragically. “There,” said the com- 
mander of the Indiana, sotto voce, “t’was the Thebald Ra- 
jah’s daughter; I knew it!” 

Those within hearing distance, good naturedly gave Burt 
the laugh, while the song continued, — 

“Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, 
Where there ain’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man can raise a 
thirst 

The men refilled their glasses and drank appreciatively. 

“First rate,” agreed every one at the finish. “Now, a 
story! Some one give us a story!” 

So the story followed, and thus with wine and song and 
thrilling tales of love and adventure, the hours flew by and 
the great clock in the hall chimed the midnight hour. 


LIFE. 


177 


At the first stroke of twelve, every man of them rose to 
his feet. Young Williamson held his glass high. 

‘^To our sweethearts and wives!” his voice rang out with 
the time-honored toast. Almost reverently, each man car- 
ried his glass to his lips, save one — Wilfrid! 

As he lifted his shaking hand, there was a little crash, and 
the sparkling glass lay shattered into bits while the wine 
ran down the white cloth, leaving a broad, crimson stain 
like blood. 

Wilfrid sank back in his seat, his face white, his eyes 
vacuous and horrified, his lips working in a sickly effort to 
smile. 

“What is it, old chap? Anything wrong? Are you ill?” 
they asked, crowding about him. 

Wilfrid laughed strangely — a little wildly. 

“Sweethearts — and wives!” he repeated, dully. 

“Well, what of it?” they inquired, kindly. 

“Nothing, only that. Sweethearts and wives;” he repeated 
stupidly; then he added, “which?” and laughed again. 

“Why, either you like,” said one of them indulgently. 

“Come, fellows,” he said, aside. “He’s clear gone, some 
one of us had better take him home.” 

“No!” shouted Wilfrid, “I’ll not go home, damn you! I 
need no infernal nurse to see me about as if I couldn’t find 
my own way. I won’t go home, I tell you. I’m going to 
the parsonage and I’m going to see Julian and I’m going to 
tell him I’ve been the damnedest blackguard that was ever 
born into the world.” 

The men exchanged glances. 

“Good night, fellows,” he went on, “sorry, I didn’t drink 
your damned toast, Williamson; dropped my glass. Quite 
accidental, I assure you;— hand shook, I suppose. All right 
toast that for some people. ^Sweethearts and wives !’ ” 

He left them and they heard him still laughing the same 
strange, uncertain laugh, as he went out of the door and 
down the street. 


CHAPTEK XVIII. 


THE OLD, OLD STORY, — BUT WITH A DIFFERENCE. 

“Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, 

Frae aflE its thorny tree ; 

And my fause luver staw the rose, 

But left the thorn wi’ me.” 

— Robert Burns. 

It was on the 4th of February that Mrs. St. Julian McDon- 
ald returned from her travels abroad, to the brownstone 
residence on ^Hhe avenue” of her native city. She had ar- 
rived about two o’clock in the afternoon, and three hours 
later found her comfortably refreshed and improved by a 
private sojourn with the wonderful Adele and the bottles, 
pots and boxes transferred from the traveling bag to their 
original station in the top drawer of her dresser. The 
French maid still moved quietly about, unpacking the ward- 
robe of her mistress, and Madame herself sat before the 
brightly burning gas-logs in her blue and white boudoir, 
sipping tea in company with her favorite son. 

“After all, it is good to be home again,” she sighed, con- 
tentedly leaning back in her big chair. 

“I am glad you find it so,” replied Wilfrid, thinking of 
something a thousand miles away. 

“Nice was delightful, Monte Carlo wonderful, this isea- 
son; Eome, — I do not care so much for Eome, but Paris! 
Ah, ma chere Paris! Je vous aime, je vous adore!” she 
cried, enthusiastically. “C’est Paris pour moi toujours! 
The boulevards, the gowns, I’Opera! I quite spent myself 
poor in Paris! I couldn’t resist Worth and all the rest. 
You should have been with me, my dear boy; I often wished 


LIFE. 


179 


for you. I really was in need of you. An attractive woman 
should never be without a cavalier in Paris.” 

Wilfrid smiled faintly at this last sally; “I wish to God 
I had been with you,” he answered fervently. 

^Mon pauvre garcon! You were lonely?” inquired his 
mother, sympathetically. 

“Oh, no; not lonely;” answered her son, impulsively, then 
bethought himself and stopped short. 

“Je comprendre;” said his mother with a wise, meaning 
smile, for which he hated her, but said nothing. 

“Ah, well,” went on that lady, “it is just as well that you 
make the most of your opportunities, for in a short time 
you will be a muchly married man, if I’m not mistaken; and 
find little chance for any thing but marital bliss or woe, as 
the case may be.” 

“Why, what do you mean?’ asked Wilfrid. 

“Well, that youthful wife of yours,” replied Mrs. St. 
Julian. “I saw her two days before leaving France; I hadn’t 
seen her for six or eight months and I pledge you my word, 
when she came into the room, I scarcely knew her. She 
really is wonderfully improved, and as I predicted, she will 
be remarkabley pretty. She has grown taller and has filled 
out and that terrible stubble has turned out quite a lovely 
mop of curls.” 

“Indeed? Well, I’m glad to hear it,” replied the young 
man politely but indifferently. 

“Yes;” continued his mother. “She was out in the grounds 
when I called and the Mother Superior sent for her. She 
had probably run or walked rapidly in answer to the sum- 
mons for her face was flushed. She^ stopped just inside the 
door and I heard her ask one of the sisters what was wanted. 

“C’est votre mere;” was told her, and all of a sudden, the 
light and color left her face, she drew her brows together, 
threw back her shoulders and walked into the room witn 
the air of a grande dame of the Empire, her yellow eyes chal- 
lenging me, as if I had come to fight with her, instead ot 
paying her a motherly call to bring her a box of bon-bons.” 


180 


LIFE. 


“Well, and what then?’’ asked Wilfrid, growing interested 
in spite of himself. Any one who rea4 his mother so cor- 
rectly and treated her accordingly, must have some sense, 
and was worth hearing of, he mentally decided, and a sud- 
den respect for his little stranger spouse was born within 
him. 

“Well, you may ask Vhat then?’” replied his mother, 
indignantly. “The little minx! She stopped a yard away 
from my chair and extended her hand to me. ‘Bon jour, 
madame,’ she remarked, stopping me with a look when I would 
have kissed her affectionately, as a mother would naturally 
greet a daughter, with all the sisters looking on, too.” 

At this juncture, Wilfrid put up his hand, and shaded his 
face, — perhaps, from the firelight? 

His mother went on, “we talked, — or rather, I did, for she 
hardly spoke, — on different subjects until I was ready to 
leave, then she opened fire. Isn’t that what you call it?” 

“I suppose so; what did she do?” questioned Wilfrid, half 
quizzically. 

“You would never guess in a thousand years. It was 
outrageous, astounding! ‘Madame,’ said she, ‘I am older 
now, and I realize what a terrible mistake I made in agree- 
ing to marry your son, for the sake of some wretched money. 
I know that he disliked it; I can recall his actions at the 
time, and I understand a great many things now, of which 
I was entirely ignorant then.’ ” 

“Humph!” ejaculated Wilfrid. “Miss Hoity-Toity!” 

“But wait, my dear,” said his mother, “you haven’t heard 
the astounding part of it, yet. ‘I have a friend,’ she said, 
‘a girl who loves me very much. She has money enough for 
us both. I know that Guardy’s money was the only ques- 
tion considered with you and your son and I will give him 
and you all; every dollar, every penny of it, if you will let 
me out of the bargain.’ ” 

“For heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Wilfrid, sitting bolt up- 
right in his chair. 

“Yes,” said his mother, “and when I told her that her 


LIFE. 


181 


friends would soon cease to be friends when they had to 
buy her clothes, she only smiled to herself. Impertinent 
little cat! But, I said to her, how can we let you out of the 
bargain? You are married, don’t you understand that mar- 
riage is binding, is a law that you can’t ignore to suit ycur 
own personal feelings or wishes?” 

“ ^Well, you know,’ she answered, as though she had 
thought the whole matter over, carefully, ‘there are such 
things as divorces.’ I confess I was at a loss to know what 
to say or do, so I told her that I would repeat her conversa- 
tion to you and that she would hear from you regarding her 
proposition, etc., then I took a thankful and hasty leave. 
Now, what do you think of that for a wife? If she wasn’t 
pretty and promising, I’d say let her have her way if you 
could without endangering your rights to the fortune.” 

“Never,” said Wilfrid, “I will make—” 

“A leddy to see you, sor,” announced Webster, at this in- 
teresting moment. 

“Tell her I can’t see any one to-night, I’m busy,” said 
Wilfrid, who was greatly interested in what he had just 
heard and did not care to be interrupted. 

Webster coughed and hesitated for a moment before he 
went on. 

“Excuse me, sor, but she said ’as ’ow h’it was very per- 
ticler, h’if you please, sor, ’as ’ow she come from Mr. 
McDonald down h’at the parsonage.” 

“Oh — all right,” said Wilfrid, hastily, changing color. 
“I will be down at once. Excuse me, mother, probably some 
message from Julian,” and he left the room. 

“Where is she, Webster?” he asked the footman whom he 
met in the lower hall. 

“Round the back, sor, she came in through the area way,” 
answered the servant. 

Wilfrid went slowly down the basement steps. He had a 
terrible presentiment of some great evil threatening him, 
some dreadful thing that would crowd him closer and closer 
to the abyss of humiliation and despair. 


182 


LIFE. 


The basement was dimly lighted, but he saw the girl at 
the farther end standing near the door expectantly awaiting 
him. 

Her small, bare hands were clasped tightly together in 
front of her, her great eyes glowed unnaturally, pitifully, be- 
speaking a tormenting fire within. 

^‘Ah, it is you, Mary, how do you do,” said Wilfrid, com- 
ing towards her. 

“Wilfrid,” said the girl, eyeing him beseechingly, “I have 
something to tell you, something, perhaps, you wonT like, 
something — oh, Wilfrid, why have you left me so, and never 
returned since then? How could you do it, darling? How 
could you leave me all alone to bear the burdens of pain and 
suspense and remorse?” and she began to weep softly. 

“Shh!” said Wilfrid, catching her by the shoulders and 
shaking her slightly. “Hush, Mary, you will attract the at- 
tention of all the servants and make no end of trouble for 
me.” 

Mary checked her sobs and gave him a long, searching 
look. V 

“Have you been ill, darling? I was so frightened. I 
wanted to come to you, but I was afraid and as each day 
closed I said, %e will surely come to-morrow I’ I suppose,” 
she continued timidly, “I would have kept on waiting, but 
for what IVe come to tell you, Wilfrid.” 

“What is it?” asked Wilfrid, his heart sickening with a 
horrible fear. 

Mary looked down and her face crimsoned while the tears 
dropped slowly from her eyes. Presently gathering courage 
she looked up at him. 

“We will have to be married, Wilfrid,” she said innocently, 
gazing earnestly into his face. 

The young man staggered and almost fell. It was as he 
feared, then; his worst presentiments were realized. He 
could scarcely stand, his knees shook so. He clutched the 
door knob and leaned against the wall. 


LIFE. 


183 


“Why, Mary,” he gasped, “I — I — can — not marry yon, 
child.” 

“Not marry me?” she repeatedly dully, as though she had 
not understood, but her face grew ashen. 

“No, I — would like to — but — you see — I — I — cannot.” 

“How — why — what do you mean?” she asked in the same 
strange, unbelieving tone. 

“Simply that — that I cannot/* said he desperately. 

“But — but me — New Year’s eve — I — I am ill!” Into the 
worn, young face was creeping the first glimmer of fear and 
understanding. 

“I know,” said Wilfrid, “I am awfully sorry. I, I will do 
all I can for you — you shall not want for anything. I will 
send you money regularly.” 

“Money? Ah, dear God, he will give me money, do you 
hear, he will give me money,” moaned the girl, burying her 
face in her hands. When she lifted it, all of its girlishness 
was gone, the eyes were sunken, the cheeks hollow and its 
expression was one of hopeless despair. 

“For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that,” gasped Wil- 
frid, shuddering and putting his hands over his eyes to shut 
out the miserable sight. 

“You — you didn’t love me, then?” whispered the girl 
piteously, “you — ^you didn’t — love me?” 

“Yes, I did love you — I thought I did, I swear it,” he 
answered. 

“And — and — you won’t — won’t marry me ?” she said slowly. 

“I told you — I’m awfully cut up and sorry about this 
thing, but I cannot/* said he. “Can’t you understand, I 
cannot, that’s all, I simply cannot,” with vague incoherency. 

The girl shook her head and moaned. 

“No,” she said, “I cannot understand, I — I never doubted 
— oh, my God, my Ood, why hast thou forsaken me !” 

“Don’t, don’t do that, Mary, for my sake, for heaven’s 
sake — ” pleaded Wilfrid, hoarsely, as he took her by the arm 
and raised her to her feet. 


184 


LIFE. 


‘‘I won’t trouble you — any longer. I will go now,” she 
said, “good-bye.” 

“No, no, you mustn’t go like this,” he said, at his wit’s 
end. “What^ — what will you do?” he cried, anxiously, as 
Mary’s despairing face awakened a new fear in him. 

For answer she turned and looked at him once more. She 
tried to speak, but words failed her, she only shook her head. 
She did not know what to think or say. 

“You will let me get a carriage for you,” said Wilfrid, 
“and here is some money. I will send you more.” 

A strange gleam came into the girl’s eyes, she laughed, a 
miserable, mocking laugh and put up her hand fiercely to 
stop him. The action was involuntary ; the next moment she 
staggered and her slender body shook from head to foot. 
Then, turning towards him, she scanned every line of the 
handsome face she had loved “not wisely, but too well.” 
Slowly, slowly the glance travelled on, as if to photograph 
every feature indelibly on her broken heart, and then still 
gazing at him, she moved towards the door. 

“Good-bye,” she said again; the word was a sob, but there 
was not a tear in her eye. Only dry, dumb agony I 

It took all of Wilfrid’s self-control to prevent his crying 
out. To his overwrought nerves, the sight of the misery and 
shame he had brought upon her, was maddest, damning tor- 
ture. 

“My . God, child,” he cried, hoarsely, “I would marry you 
if I could. I swear by all that’s holy, I would. But I can- 
not,” his face blanched to an awful whiteness as he con- 
cluded, “because — ^because — I have — a wife already!” 

“Ah!” 

It was only one word from Mary’s pale lips, but it spoke 
volumes, and Wilfrid never forgot the reproach of it to his 
dying day. It was the wail of a lost soul from its bottomless 
pit of shame. He had lied to her for the sake of one short 
hour of pleasure, forgetful of the future, and heedless of the 
misery and suffering which it might bring to his victim. It 
all came back to him, now, and it seemed to him that if he 


LIFE. 


185 


could only undo the past, he would be willing to sacrifice 
his life. 

She opened the door. , 

‘‘Wait!” whispered Wilfrid. “Listen! I will — will see 
you again. I will explain — I will send you money regu- 
larly. You must let me know how you are getting along. 
You had better go to a hospital; you are too ill — ” 
he suddenly stopped, for the girl had sped away into the 
darkness and he never knew whether she had heard or not. 

He sat down on the stone steps after she had gone. He 
had neither heart or courage to go back upstairs and listen to 
his mother’s chatter, so he still sat there, dazed and totally 
unstrung. Ballyhoo, his uncle Thornbury, Angela, Mary, 
Julian, Cuba, Marjory, Wingate, the parsonage — a strange 
medley of incidents passed in a rapid, confused way through 
his mind. Presently, he rose and crept, by way of the back 
stairs, up to his den, where with shaking hands, he poured 
out a glass of whiskey. As he raised it to his lips, he re- 
membered Williamson’s toast on New Year’s day. He swore 
aloud and kicked over a chair that stood in his way. An 
hour later he put on his coat and hat and left the house. 

Next day, a letter was received at the War Department at 
Washington, requesting immediate assignment of First 
Lieutenant McDonald to duty with his regiment in the 
Philippines. Two weeks later, he was on board the Govern- 
ment transport Lawton, far out on the great Pacific, which 
each hour was putting him further from his native land. 
And the girl he left behind him, watched, hoped and prayed, 
ignorant of his going, ignorant of the depth of her sin, the 
greatness of her shame, ignorant of the ways of men, — 
knowing only that she loved him ! 


CHAPTER XIX. 


AN UNREQUITED LOVE. 

“The fire of love in youthful blood 
Like what Is kindled in brushwood 
But for a moment burns ; 

Yet in that moment makes a mighty noise, 

It crackies, and to vapor turns, 

And soon itself destroys. 

But when crept into aged veins 
It slowly burns, and long remains ; 

And with a sullen heat, ' 

Like fire In logs. It glows, and warms ’em long, 

And though the flame be not so great, 

Yet is the heat as strong.’’ 

— Thomas SJiadwill. 

As the weeks passed, Julian did not fail to notice that a 
great change had taken place in Mary. 

The roses had gone from her cheeks, her eyes were red 
with constant weeping, she had ceased going with him to 
visit the sick and the afflicted, she never played now upon 
the little organ, and her merry laugh, that had been wont to 
cheer him whilst sitting around the fireside on wintry nights, 
was heard no more. Many times he had spoken to her re- 
garding the change, but she had always insisted that she 
could see no difference and if any existed, it must be due to 
some small ailment, a nervous headache or a slight cold. He 
felt also that she now possessed a strange desire for solitude, 
for she remained oftener in her own room than she had been 
wont to do and she avoided his presence under any slight 
excuse and at every opportunity. 

The change worried him and upon three occasions he had 
called in a physician to see if he could cast any light upon 
her ailment, but she had positively refused to see a doctor 


LIFE. 


187 


and each time he had been compelled to go away without as 
much as having even an interview with the girl, whose great 
sorrow, was really caused by the certain knowledge of the 
condition she was in and the realization that she dared not 
even consult a physician and thus risk the horrible truth 
being made known to others than herself. 

Who, knowing this, could marvel that she longed for lone- 
liness or that the crimson of shame tinged her cheeks 
when her eyes encountered those of others whom she knew 
to be honest where she was not ? 

She knew that the time was fast approaching when she 
must leave the parsonage and say farewell forever to all 
that had become most dear to her. The little money left 
her by her father was almost gone, given away in charity to 
the very poor who would condemn her when the truth, in all 
its horrors, was made known to them. They would not call 
her “the little angel of the mission” then, she would be un- 
worthy to even touch the hands of those, who, out of the 
goodness of her heart, she had generously succored. What 
wonder that she was wretched, miserable, broken-hearted? 
Her sin had found her out and its consequences were great 
and terrible. 

And Wilfrid, the man to whom she had surrendered her 
very life, had never written to her, he cared not for the 
consequences of his evil passion, he knew all and he passed 
her by, leaving her to bear her fearful burden unaided and 
alone. 

His name was never mentioned now in Julianas home, she 
knew not even of his whereabouts; despite his cruelty she 
still possessed sublime faith in him and believed that when 
her sorrow should become the greatest he would come forward 
to her relief, that he would drive the troubles from her 
clouded life and restore the sunshine to her heart again. 

On the first Sunday in March, Julian requested Mary to 
sing a solo during his morning service in the Mission, 
choosing his favorite hymn, “Abide With Me.” 

Mary sat in her usual place amongst the choir and when 


188 


LIFE. 


she rose to her feet, with the congregation sitting and the 
strains of the organ hurst forth in in its sublime melody, 
Julian imagined that her voice had never seemed half so 
sweet, as when the beautiful words, sung clearly, distinctly 
and with infinite pathos, came from her lips. 

“Abide with me ! fast falls the even tide ! 

The darkness deepens ; Lord with me abide ! 

When other helpers fail, and comforts flee 
Help of the helpless, oh abide with me ! 

“Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day ! 

Earth’s joys grow dim ; its glories pass away. 

Change and decay in ail around I see ; 

O Thou, who changeth not, abide with me ! 

“Thou on my head in earthly youth did’st smile ; 

And though rebellious and perverse meanwhile. 

Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee. 

On to the close, O Lord, abide with me ! 

“I need Thy presence every passing hour ; 

What but Thy grace can foil the tempter’s power? 

Who like Thyself ’’ 

The rich tones of the organ continued to fill the little 
church, but the singer’s voice had ceased and she sank back 
weak, weeping and exhausted in her seat. She felt that 
she had sung for the last time in Julian’s little church, every 
stone of which had grown sacred to her. And as she looked 
around at the homely faces of those assembled there she 
believed that she had been singing her good-bye to them 
forever. 

The moment was one never to be forgotten by those who 
had heard her, the words had never been harmonized with 
such exquisite feeling and tear-dimmed eyes were every- 
where. 

As the chords of the organ died away, a deep hush filled 
the church, which lasted for several minutes, then Julian 
arose and going into the pulpit, announced that instead of a 
single text he would choose as the subject of his discourse 
the Ten Commandments. 


LIFE. 


189 


Then, in his rich voice he preached a wonderful exhorta- 
tion, appealing to the conscience of his listeners to lead 
purer and holier lives and comparing each Commandment 
to a separate key to the entrance of the Kingdom of Heaven, 
all of which it was necessary to keep unstained and inviolate, 
if they wished to enter their Father^s House of Many Man- 
sions when the Great Day of Judgment should break upon 
the world. 

He explained the nature, the meaning and full require- 
ments of the laws of Moses as given by God on the top of 
Mount Sinai. When the seventh commandment was reached, 
he repeated it twice so as to impress the words more firmly 
upon the minds of his congregation. 

A deep, half -stifled moan of pain was heard in the choir 
and all eyes were instantly turned in that direction, Mary 
had swooned, lost consciousness and fallen upon the floor. 

It was an interruption so unlooked for that its happening 
caused great consternation among those assembled. Julian, 
not knowing whether Mary was living or dead, immedi- 
ately brought his sermon to a close and pronounced the 
benediction. He requested his people to pass out of the 
Mission as quietly as possible, thus avoiding any possible 
commotion, and when they had gone, without removing his 
vestments he went to the choir-loft where willing hands had 
raised Mary into a sitting posture and were doing all in 
their power to restore her to sensibility. 

“Mary, dearest!” he cried and the agony of his heart was 
evident to all who heard him. “Can’t you hear me ? It is I, 
Julian, who calls you!” He chafed her hands, he gently 
stroked her forehead and then closing his eyes, devoutly 
breathed a prayer to heaven for her recovery. Then, retiring 
to the sacristry, he disrobed himself of the garments of his 
sacred ofiice and when he returned, to his great joy he found 
his prayer partly answered and Mary, although still be- 
wildered, at least brought back to consciousness. 

“Oh, Julian, I have been so wicked, — forgive me! Won’t 


190 


LIFE. 


you?” she moaned in broken sentences, have caused you 
so much trouble, — but I didn’t know — ” 

“Of course you didn’t dearest,” he replied. “Cease worry- 
ing and Aunt Betsy and I will take you home. You need 
rest and quiet, 'Mary. Why, you are trembling like a leaf,” 
he said, as the girl rose to her feet. Aunt Betsy supporting 
her upon one side and Julian on the other. “Every nerve 
within you seems quivering with emotion, you must see the 
doctor, now, so that we can learn the cause. My little church 
can ill afford to have its sweetest angel on a bed of sickness, 
— why, we could never do without you, dear.” 

“I am not ill, Julian,” she said, “only weak! Far weaker 
than you know !” 

A look of great sadness overspread her face, as she looked 
into his tender, ever-loving eyes. He did not understand 
her; the weakness to which she alluded was of the mind and 
not an ailment of the body. 

When they arrived upon the outside of the church the rain 
was falling fast and Julian placed his great coat around her 
and heedless of his own health and comfort, kept his um- 
brella entirely over her, thus protecting her from the storm. 

“Julian, I don’t deserve such kindness; I have been bad, 
sinful, wicked,” said Mary, “and if you really knew me as I 
am, you would not aid me thus, you would not even allow me 
to remain beneath your roof to-night, you would drive me 
out — as one accursed.” 

“No, dear, I never could do that, nor will I believe that 
you have stooped to sin,” declared Julian. “To me you have 
ever been and are — the choicest blessing God ever sent to 
lighten my poor life.” 

“Don’t, Julian — don’t!” she cried. “Your words burn into 
my soul and cut my heart in two. If you only knew! If 
you only knew!” 

They had reached the door of the parsonage and Mary 
leaned her head upon Aunt Betsy’s shoulder and wept. 

“I don’t want to kiiow,” replied Julian; “it is enough for 
me to believe you to be the dearest and sweetest little woman 


LIFE. 


191 


in all the world.” He opened the door, and turning to Mary, 
continued: “Now, I want you to go to your room and rest; 
Aunt Betsy shall take your dinner up to you and this even- 
ing after service is over, when you are better and stronger, 
you shall come into my study and we will have the happiest 
little chat that we have ever had together.” 

She went into the hallway and he took her hand and 
kissed it as she passed. She gave him his overcoat, thanked 
him and went up the stairs without looking back. 

“Something’s gone ’ard with ’er, I never seen ’er h’act so 
strange afore,” declared Aunt Betsy. 

“Oh, a little out of sorts,” said Julian, putting on his 
coat. “She needs rest and quiet. You will watch and guard 
her tenderly, I know.” 

He went out into the street. 

“I h’always does, sir,” said Aunt Betsy, as she closed the 
door. 

It was almost time for Sunday School and Julian hastened 
back to the Mission. On his way, the promise he had made 
to Mary’s dying father, seemed to to force itself into his 
mind and he repeated the familiar words again and again. 

“I promise that your child shall be to me a sacred trust. 
I am a man of God and will gather your daughter into His 
sacred fold. I will guard, protect and honor her and if 
aught goes wrong with her in life, my own shall answer for 
it.” 

Julian’s Sunday School was always held at noon and he 
himself conducted the Bible class, made up of the oldest 
scholars. The lesson for the day was from the seventh 
chapter of St. Luke, beginning with the thirty-sixth verse. 
It was the story of Mary Magdalene, and told of what a 
friend the Master had been to sinners, forgiving them when 
they showed faith and repentance and while he spoke of 
that Mary, his thoughts were of the other one, whom dying 
Michael St. John had entrusted to his care and the death 
scene in the cabin of the ship was again foremost in his 
mind. 


192 


LIFE. 


And when returning to his home he found himself again 
repeating the promise he had made. 

And the words seemed to haunt him throughout the day, 
while at dinner, during his afternoon calls, throughout the 
evening service at the 'Mission, until he found himself again 
in his study and had told Aunt Betsy to inform his ward 
tliat if she had sufficiently recovered, he should be pleased to 
talk with her. 

He had not long to wait before Mary entered the room. 
She looked very pale and ill. 

“Mary,” he said, as he went towards her, took her gently 
by the hand and led her to the most comfortable chair in the 
room, “I have been sorely troubled throughout the day on 
account of you, it has been impossible to banish you at any 
moment from my mind.” He placed her in the chair, took 
some soft, downy pillows from the sofa and laid them be- 
hind her head, so that she would rest easily, then drawing a 
hassock close up to her chair, he sat beside her and again 
took her hand in his. “Something troubles you,” he con- 
tinued; “I donH want you to tell me what it is, dear one, for 
my faith in you is so great that I know it cannot be wrong, 
but I want to ask you if I have been at all to blame.” 

“Oh, no,” she answered, “you are goodness itself; if all 
men were like you how different the world would be.” 

“You know, your father placed you in my care to guard, 
protect and honor,” he said. “That the trust which I ac- 
cepted has been kept to the very best of my ability, I believe 
you know and now I want to ask you to let me be more to 
you than the simple guardian of your honor, I want you to 
become — my wife.” 

He could feel her hand trembling in his, he could see her 
lips moving as if in an effort to speak; the miserable stare 
of her eyes startled him and his heart beat wildly. 

“Don’t answer yet,” he continued, “I know the disparity 
in our ages and realize that I am no longer the buoyant vis- 
ion of youth so captivating to a young girl of your tender 
years, but I have a heart within me that beats as warmly. 


LIFE. 


193 


steadfastly and passionately for you as would that of any 
younger man. If you will honor me by giving me your love 
and placing the care of your future in my hands, I promise 
that my devotion to you shall end only with my life; noth- 
ing can part us, nothing can come between us; you are all I 
want and if I knew that I could always have you by my side, 
hand in hand and heart to heart, passing the days of our 
lives together, I would not exchange places with the proudest 
monarch of an empire.” 

He rose to his feet, he bent over her awaiting her answer 
and stood waiting and anxious to press upon her lips the 
first kiss he had ever dared to hope for. 

But Mary did not reply ; she sat staring into the fire which 
was crackling in the grate and in its burning coals and red 
ashes she seemed to see pictures of Wilfrid and herself, 
united and happy, and her heart plead anew for her love in 
the unspoken hope that in the midst of her misfortunes he 
would surely come. 

She seemed to have forgotten Julianas presence, until still 
holding her right hand, he placed his left arm round 
her head and raised her face to his own. 

“You do not answer me,” he said, in a tone of infinite 
kindness. 

“Ah, Julian, is that you?” she replied vaguely. 

“Yes, dearest, and I have been telling you the story of my 
great love.” 

“I know,” she said, “but you seemed to me to be so far 
away, that I thought I heard it in a dream.” 

“But it is no dream, sweetheart,” he cried, “it is real, it is 
genuine! Oh, darling, can’t you in return love me? But 
say the word that will make me the happiest of men and I 
will kiss away the tears from your eyes, I will bring again 
the smile to your lips, the color to your face and you shall 
be my wife, my life, my all!” 

7 


194 


LIFE. 


He fell upon his knees, pressing her hands to his lips and 
kissing them passionately. 

^^Two people never lived in such happiness as you and I 
shall, Mary,” he went on. ^‘Every thought, every wish of my 
existence shall be for you! Oh, say that you will be mine 
and on our wedding day the chains that bind us shall be the 
sweetest burdens we have ever borne.” 

She withdrew her hand from his and placed it tenderly 
upon his head. 

^^It is too late, Julian!” she said gently, “too late, — it can 
never be!” 

“Too late?” he questioned. “You mean — you love an- 
other ?” 

“Yes,” she answered with a great sob, and turned her face 
from his. 

“I cannot understand you,” said Julian in a hoarse whis- 
per, still kneeling at her side; the agony of his soul was in 
his voice and was betrayed in every feature of his face. 
“You have seen none in whom you could place your confi- 
dence and love ” he paused, and mentally ran over the 

list of her acquaintances who were known to him, — “except 
Wilfrid,” he added. 

She shuddered. He noticed the action and a sudden chill 
settled over his heart; he rose to his feet, breathing hard, the 
usual kindly expression had gone from his face and in its 
place there blazed a fierce, jealous anger. He had released 
her hand; he now seized it wildly, madly, fire in his eyes 
and bitterest passion in his voice. 

“Tell me, is it Wilfrid?” he demanded, his iron grasp 
tightening around her wrist until his finger nails hurt her 
tender flesh. 

For just a moment Mary shrank from him in fear and 
then forgetful of herself and thinking only of her lover she 
looked at him defiantly. 

“It is not with Wilfrid !” she exclaimed. 


LIFE. 


196 


It was the second falsehood she had ever uttered. She felt 
it keenly, for it was spoken in defense of the man who had 
wronged her and led her into the first step of sin, the con- 
sequence of which was now spreading a cloud over her whole 
life, darkening her future and leaving her nothing to live 
for but misery and despair. 

‘‘If not with him — with whom?” he cried. 

“I will not answer,” she said calmly, “you forget yourself, 
and you are hurting me.” 

He released her hand. Her wrist was swollen, the marks 
of his fingers could be plainly seen and drops of blood 
trickled from the spots into which his finger nails had sunk. 

Once more he seized her hand, this time with passionate 
tenderness and kissed away the stains of blood. 

“Forgive me,” he said miserably, “I was mad, mad to have 
caused you, the best and purest woman in the world, a single 
moment’s pain. You are right, I forget myself, I know not 
what I do.” 

He arose ashamed and repentant; with bowed head he 
crossed to the fire-place, burying his face on his arms upon 
the mantle. 

“Ah, do not blame yourself for anything, Julian,” said 
Mary, rising. “You have always been so good to me, too 
good, and I have ill deserved it. Try to forget me if you 
can, for I am all unworthy of your love. Ah! there is a 
wound griping at my heart that can never heal; it will last 
not only through this life, but through all eternity.” 

She arose and silently left the room, closing the door be- 
hind her, and Julian was left alone. 

The seconds grew into minutes and the minutes into hours 
ere Julian moved and when lie did a terrible change was 
stamped upon his white face ; it was deathly in its pallor and 
his hands trembled. He looked old, careworn and pitifully 
helpless. 

He stared blindly at the vacant chair where Mary had 
been sitting, his eyes dark with an utter hopelessness. 


196 


LIFE. 


Love had gone out of his life and in its place there re- 
mained nothing but the ashes of roses. 

When Love’s warm sun is set, 

Love’s brightness closes ; 

Eyes with hot tears are wet 
In hearts where linger yet 
Ashes of roses. 

“You will never know how much I loved you, Mary I” he 
whispered. “Heaven help me! I loved you better than my 
God!” 


CHAPTEK XX. 


ALONE. 

“The fleeting, fleeting hours, 

Which ne’er return again. 

Leave only faded flowers 
And weary days of pain. 

Delight recedes from view 
And never more may pass 
Sweet words of tenderness, between us two.” 

— Samuel Stillman Conant. 

The next morning 'Mary remained in her room. 

Aunt Betsy knocked early at her door and asked if she 
would come down to breakfast, or if she should bring her up 
a cup of tea, but the only reply she received from Mary was 
that she needed nothing. 

Again at noon the good lady silently tiptoed up the stairs. 
Placing an eager ear close to the door, she heard nothing and 
started to go down the stairs under the conviction that Mary 
was still sleeping, but being very curious at an event so out 
of the common, she again returned to the door, got down on 
her knees and peeped curiously through the key hole. 

To her surprise she saw Mary sitting at her table writing. 

She moved back a few paces and then stepping as noisily 
as possible approached Mary’s door, knocked, listened and 
awaited results. 

She could distinctly hear Mary cross the room and plainly 
heard the creaking of the bed as she laid down. 

‘^Who is there?” came Mary’s voice from the room. 

“Aunt Betsy, my dear, may I come in?” she asked. 

“Yes,” replied Mary, and as the old woman entered the 
room the young one sat up in bed and yawned. 

“Luncheon is ready ; I ’opes you are feeling better and are 


198 


LIFE. 


h-able to come down,” said Aunt Betsy; at the same time 
eyeing Mary with suspicion. 

“Thank you ver much, Aunt Betsy,” she replied, “but I 
really have not had my sleep out yet. I hope you wonT be 
angry with me, but I really am very sorry that you awakened 
me.” 

For answer Aunt Betsy walked out of the room and slam- 
med the door. 

Oh, what a horful wicked lie!” she said to herself at the 
foot of the staircase. “I ’ad never thought to ’ear the like 
from ’er; she was always so good, — what is this world a-com- 
in’ to, I wonder.” 

When she entered the dining room, she found Julian 
seated there reading a letter which had arrived that morning 
from Wilfrid. It was post-marked at Honolulu where the 
transport had anchored for a few days on its way to Manila. 

“Will Miss Mary come down?” he asked anxiously. 

“No! the baggage says she’s sleepy!” snapped the house- 
keeper. 

“Aunt Betsy!” said the minister reprovingly as he laid 
Wilfrid’s letter on the table. “Miss Mary is my ward and 
you will please refrain from speaking of her in such a man- 
ner.” 

“Well, I have my h-ideas I” said the lady. 

“Then you will kindly keep them entirely to yourself,” re- 
plied Julian. 

And he walked out of the room. 

“Won’t you h-eat your luncheon?” asked Aunt Betsy, as 
she followed him into the hallway. 

“No!” he replied abruptly, and putting on his hat and 
coat he went out into the street. 

“What a worry h-unfortunate ’ouse this is to-day, every- 
body seems to ’ave the ’igh strikes!” murmured Aunt Betsy 
after he had gone, and then she returned to the dining room, 
sat down, sighed deeply and soliloquized to herself. 

“In h-all the years I’ve served as housekeeper to the parson 
I never seen such times h-afore! Somethin’s wrong with the 


LIFE. 


199 


girl. IVe ’ad my eyes on ’er ever since the night I thought 
as ’ow I ’eard a man’s voice in ’er room, — Oh, she’s a sly 
minx, but she can’t deceive Aunt Betsy! H-and Master 
Julian so blind, too! Can’t see there’s nothin’ h-up, when 
there’s a regular volcanic mountain a-goin’ to h-erupt right 
over ’is dear ’ead! And ’e h-actually told me, who serves 
’im faithfully, to keep my h-ideas to myself! It ’ud be bet- 
ter for ’im, I’m thinkin’, if ’e ’ad the same h-ideas ’imself. 
An’ ’e’ll get ’em, too, or I’m mistaken! An’ she ’ad the or- 
dacity to faint in church, just a-bidden’ for sympathy from 
the congregation ! If it wasn’t that I’m a Christian woman 
with a ’art brim full of Charity for h-ev’ry one, I’d be 
tempted to think more badly of ’er than I do ! And they calls 
’er a H-angel! A H- ANGEL” she repeated indignantly. 
“Well, if she’s a h-angel, I’m a H-arch h-angel, an’ that’s a 
good deal better!” 

The door opened and Mary entered the room. She was 
dressed for the street, neatly but very plainly. 

“Has Julian gone out?” she asked. 

“Yes,” snapped Aunt Betsy. 

“Aunty, don’t speak so unkindly,” replied Mary sorrow- 
fully. “I am going away and I don’t think — ^you — ^will ever 
see me any more.” 

“Where are you going?” questioned Aunt Betsy, and the 
tones of her voice told plainly that her heart was already 
softening. 

“I don’t know,” sobbed Mary. “I shall try to find work; 
if I succeed all will be well, and if I fail — it will not matter.” 

“Does Master Julian know?” questioned the housekeeper. 

“No, and I do not wish him to seek for me. My desire is 
to go quietly, where no one who has known me will ever hear 
of me again,” replied Mary. “My life has been a failure; I 
have disappointed the man who has sheltered me and I want 
to be forgotten.” 

“I am sure that Master Julian loves you, Mary. In what 
way could you ’ave disappointed ’im?” asked Aunt Betsy. 


200 


LIFE. 


^‘Last night he asked me to become his wife/^ she replied, 
told him that I could not, for I am so unworthy — 

The tears were flowing fast and as Aunt Betsy went to 
her and put her arms around her in an attempt to soothe her, 
it was with difficulty that she restrained her own. 

“Don’t cry, darling,” she said, “and you must put all 
thoughts of goin’ away h-out of your foolish little ’ead. 
Master Julian should ’ave known before he axed ye that you 
were too young for the likes of ’im. But ’e’ll get h-over it, 
so don’t break ’is ’art by going away.” 

“I must. Aunt Betsy,” Mary said, “you do not under- 
stand, and I pray God you never may, — I can no longer re- 
main here dependent on his bounty, — I have been so now too 
long — and — I have written him a little note of thanks which 
I want you to give to him when I am gone.” 

She drew from underneath her cloak a letter, sealed and 
addressed to Julian, which she tried to place in Aunt Betsy’s 
hand. 

“I won’t take it, dear,” she said. “You shall wait till Mas- 
ter Julian comes ’ome and then you can h- argue together 
on the matter of your goin .” 

“Then I will place the letter here,” said Mary. 

She was about to lay it upon the table, when the letter 
Julian had left met her eye. She saw on the instant that it 
was Wilfrid’s familiar handwriting and her heart leaped 
with joy. Did it contain a message for her? Was he safe? 
Was he well? Where had he kept himself? What was he 
doing? Did he ever think of her? These questions ran 
through her mind in rapid succession and she longed to pos- 
sess the letter that she might peruse it. 

“Well, you can’t think of going until you’ve h-eaten some- 
thing! You know you ’aven’t touched a morsel since yester 
mornin’,” said Aunt Betsy, as she slid Mary’s chair to its 
customary place at the table, “so sit down, dear, and I’ll 
go down into the kitchen and bring you h-up some lunch.” 

The old lady cunningly thought to detain Mary until 
Julian should return, and Mary secretly rejoiced at this op- 


LIFE. 


201 


portunity of getting rid of Aunt Betsy so that she might 
have a chance to read Wilfrid’s letter. 

“Thank you. Auntie, — will you make me a fresh cup of 
tea?” she asked. 

“That I will, dear,” replied the housekeeper going to the 
top of the stairway. 

“And boil for me some nice fresh eggs ?” added Mary. 

“You shall have the freshest h-eggs in the kitchen,” an- 
swered Aunt Betsy as she descended the stairs, delighted 
with the way in which the little scheme was working. 

“Three minutes!” called Mary, as the old woman disap- 
peared from sight. 

“Three minutes !” came back the answer, but Mary did not 
hear her. She had picked up Wilfrid’s letter, pressed it to 
her lips and kissed it again and again. 

“His own dear handwriting!” she said, as she held it in 
front of her face, which was now beaming with smiles and 
radiant with joy; then she looked at the postmark to see from 
whence it came. The stamping was very faint and almost 
illegible and when she at last managed to decipher “Hono- 
lulu” the smile disappeared and in its place there came an 
anxious look of dread and suffering. 

She next opened the letter; she knew it was addressed 
to Julian, but what did that matter; it came from the man 
she loved, the one to whom she had given her whole heart, 
and she- had not heard of him or from him in two long, bit- 
ter months. 

And as she read, the look of anxious pain deepened into 
abject misery and despair. 

The letter told of the gossip of his regiment, of his ambi- 
tions when he should reach the Philippines and be once 
again in the field in active service; it related stories of the 
good times he was having, of his enjoyment and many escap- 
ades, but he had not alluded to Mary in a single line. She 
realized at last that he neither knew or cared if she were 
dead or living. 

The letter dropped from her trembling hand. The tears 


202 


LIFE. 


came not now, despair had dried up the flood gates, which if 
loosened, might have brought relief; her heart was frozen 
and her brain on fire, reason for the time had fled. 

trusted him!” she cried. “I surrendered to him my 
very life and he forgets ! He will return no more I He leaves 
me to bear all the burden of our shame — alone 1” 

Like one pursued by some terrible dream phantasy she 
passed out into the hallway and then into the street, down 
which she fled, never for a single instant looking back. 

She had gone from Julian’s home, perhaps never to enter 
it again. 

When Aunt Betsy returned with the tea and the eggs she 
was surprised to find the room deserted. She went out into 
the hallway and found the street door open. 

“Mary!” she called, “Mary!” but no answer came. 

She went into the street, looked up and down, but could 
see no sign of her. She climbed the stairs, peered into 
Mary’s room and then into every room in the house; she 
called her name a dozen times, but Mary could not he found. 

She returned to the dining room, picked up the letter 
which Mary had addressed to Julian and then, hatless and 
coatless, started at once for the mission, hoping that she 
might find Julian there and acquaint him with the news of 
Mary’s flight in time for him to seek for her and bring her 
home again. 

She found Julian in the church, kneeling in prayer before 
the altar. 

She did not wait for him to rise, but from the very door 
of the church cried out excitedly: 

“Master Julian, this is no time for prayers but h-action! 
h-aetion I Don’t you hear ? Poor Mary’s gone !” 

“Gone? Gone where?” asked Julian, as he staggered to 
his feet and leaned against the altar railing for support. 

‘T! don’t know,” sobbed Aunt Betsey, “this letter which 
she told me to give you may possibly explain.” 

She had walked up the aisle and stood at the altar steps. 


LIFE. * 


203 


Julian took the letter from her hands, hastily opened it and 
read as follows: 

“Dbab Julian : 

“You have been so good to me since I came to your home. Be good 
to me now and forgive my seeming base ingratitude in leaving you 
thus. It is the proudest thought of my life that you wished me to 
become your wife and my heart aches that I cannot do as you ask In 
this thing, as I have always tried to do in every other. Don’t look 
for me, — you cannot find me, — and it is my desire that you never see 
me again, for believe me, I am not worthy even of your condemnation. 
I thank you so much for all of your kindness to me and as long as 
my life lasts I shall pray God to make you very happy. Please think 
of me no more, I am as I deserve to be, — broken hearted. 

“Mary.” 

And between the lines Julian thought he read his own 
condemnation. 

“Oh, I have been a fool! he cried. “I loved her and my 
love has driven her from my doors!” Then raising his eyes 
to heaven he prayed aloud: “Father, let this cup pass from 
me, for it is very bitter, aye, too bitter for me to drain. I 
am frail, I am weak, — I am only human. Be merciful unto 
me and bring Mary home!” 

“H-action ! H-action ! That’s what’s needed. Master 
Julian, if you h-expects to bring ’er ’ome,” cried Aunt Bet- 
sy. “God ’elps those as ’elps themselves and you need 
h-action now!” 

“You are right. Aunt Betsy,” he said, as he clasped her 
warmly by the hand and passed down the aisle. 

He put on his hat and coat and went out into the streets, 
and he walked all that afternoon and all that night, heedless 
of the storm that raged, searching for her, blaming himself 
that she had gone and praying that she might be safely re- 
stored to him. At one time he was very near to her, only a 
few feet away — and Mary saw him., but she hid from him 
and made no sign. 

And the daylight had come again ere Julian returned to 
his home — alone! 


CHAPTEK XXI. 

THE TWAIN THEM ! 

“ITl ne’er blame my partial fancy, 

Naething could resist my Nancy ; 

But to see her was to love her ; 

Love her, and love forever.” 

— Robert Burns. 

“Nan, do you think he will know me, or even suspect?” 

“No, Angela; there is no chance of it.” 

“Ah, Nan, but if he should — and guess my errand here. 
Nan, I should die for shame.” 

“He would never have a thought of it, Angela. Why, I 
never saw you such a coward before. What a husband he 
must be, forsooth, that you turn first red and then pale, at 
the mere mention of his name. And what a specimen of 
wifely sentiment. For shame!” 

“Ah, Nancy, do not tease.” 

The two girls were dressing in the great room they shared, 
the occasion being their first ball, in fact, their first intro- 
duction into society since leaving the grey convent walls in 
Southern France, from which they had both graduated just 
one month before. 

The entertainment was to be at the Governor’s palace 
where they were guests. Nan being a niece of His Excllency, 
and the occasion for many reasons was to be one of intense 
interest and excitement for both debutantes. 

Long pier glasses stood at either end of the big room, be- 
fore which the girls passed back and forth, arranging this 
or that portion of their dainty costumes. 

“There now, how is that?” said Nan, settling a final sash 
in its place. 


LIFE. 


205 


“Lovely !” said Angela. “How becoming pink is to you, 
Nancy.” 

The Governor’s pretty niece smiled back at herself in the 
mirror, well pleased with her friend’s genuine admiration. 
She was a very pretty girl, even without the added charm 
of the pink ball dress; with great black laughter-loving eyes 
and a perfect coronet of dark hair a-top her shapely head. 
Her mouth was quite large, but well shaped and full of the 
prettiest of pearly teeth. Her little nose was slightly tip- 
tilted and decidedly saucy, and her cheeks burned crimson 
to-night with pleasurable excitement and joy. 

Her fingers sparkled with magnificent gems and a diamond 
collar blazed on her slender throat. An only and idolized 
child of a wealthy father, whose wife had died at her birth, 
since babyhood she had been spoiled and petted, her every 
wish anticipated and granted. No whim had been left un- 
gratified; she had ruled her father, her grandmother, the 
housekeeper and the servants with a pretty imperiousness all 
her life. From the day she entered the quiet convent, from 
which she and Angela had so lately emerged, she had kept 
the whole school, from the Mother Superior down to the old 
gardener, Jacques, in a tumult. Yes, Nanette, or “Nan,” as 
she was generally known, was certainly a piquantly pretty 
young person and her wild spirits were always exhilerating, 
never tiresome. 

She and Angela had been inseparable chums during the 
two years of school life and were devotedly attached to each 
other. 

Angela had grown up very beautiful, much more so than 
her friend, who was first to acknowledge it and do homage to 
its superiority. Nan was so whole-souledly happy and con- 
tented with her lot, that there was not a trace of discontent 
or petty jealousy about her. As has been said, she was 
greatly attached to Angela and intensely interested in An- 
gela’s strange history and present prospects. 

While still in short petticoats at school, they had run 
from the other children and Nan had sat under the 


away 


206 


LIFE. 


trees in summer or cuddled up to Angela under the bed- 
clothes on winter nights and woven wonderful romances of 
the little girl-wife’s future to which Angela had listened 
with eager interest, not saying much, but hoping for the 
future planned by her volatile friend. After one of Mrs. St. 
Julian’s visits to the convent, in a fit of temper, Angela had 
opened her heart and given to Nan the first information 
upon this wonderful subject. 

“What are you crying so for?” the latter asked when she 
found her lying face downward on the green moss beneath 
a great tree at the back of the school building. It was about 
two months after Angela’s arrival and they had declared 
their mutual friendship at an early stage. 

“I hate her; I hate her; I hate herl” Angela had shrieked, 
beating the soft moss with her little clinched fists. 

“What for? What’s she done to you? Who is she?” Nan 
asked. * 

^^My mother-in-law, and a hateful devil I” sobbed the child 
on the ground. 

“ Your whatf asked Nan, not believing her ears. “You 
mean your step-mother, don’t you?” ' 

“No; I mean my mother-in-law. They’re always devils; 
the books say so.” 

“But how have you got a mother-in-law?” asked Nan, still 
mystified. 

“Why, she’s my husband’s mother,” sobbed Angela, “and 
he’s a devil, and I hate him, too.” 

“Your mother; husband; devil?” repeated Nan, stupidly 
staring at the little girl before her. Suddenly an idea struck 
her. “Come, you are not well,” she said, “I believe you’ve 
got fever. Let’s go and tell Sister Geneve.” 

“I’m not sick and I haven’t any fever. I’m just mad and 
I don’t want you to go and tell anybody what I’ve said or 
meddle,” said Angela fiercely. 

“Of course I won’t say anything,” said Nan, “but I be- 
lieve you are sick all the same.” 

“Why? Because I’ve got a husband?” questioned Angela, 


LIFE. 


207 


and not waiting for the dumbfounded girl’s answer, she 
added, ^‘Well, that’s enough to make anyone sick, I suppose. 
I wish I could get sick and die and go to papa and mamma 
and guardy and get away from them all! Away from that 
silly, hateful woman just gone, out of the clutches of her 
money-itching j&ngers; away from Wilfrid, who married me 
because he had to, and who would be glad if he never saw 
me again. Oh, I’m so miserable, so miserable, why couldn’t 
God let me be like other little girls. I don’t want the 
money ; they can have it all, if they’ll only let me go away.” 

Nan put her arms sympathetically about the little orphan 
as she sobbingly poured the whole story into her astonished 
ears. When the trembling voice had ceased and the little 
tempest-spent figure quietly nestled itself into the dark-eyed 
girl’s warm embrace. Nan spoke. 

“You are right,” she said. “Let them take all their old 
money. I’ve got enough for a dozen girls to* spend. I’ve al- 
ways been lonely and wanted a sister, so I’ll make papa 
adopt you and you can live always with me. How would you 
like that?” 

“You are always so good to me, Nanette,” answered An- 
gela, gratefully, twining her arms about her friend’s neck, 
“and I’d rather be your sister than anybody’s in the world.” 

For weeks after that they wove stories, or rather Nan did, 
while Angela listened, in which Wilfrid was transformed 
into a king of ogres. But in the spring of that same year, a 
letter had come from him to Angela. She showed it to Nan, 
of course, and Nan changed her opinion. 

“Why, Angela, he doesn’t seem so awfully bad,” she had 
ventured. “Oh, Angela, suppose — suppose that some day, 
you would meet, and your curls would be all grown long, and 
you’d be all plump again, and you’d wear long dresses and 
be lovely, and — and he wouldn’t know you, and you’d meet 
him at dances and parties and ride and drive with him, and 
take long, lovery walks with him and he’d fall in love with 
you, and then when he asked you to marry him, you'd tell 
him you were married. Then he’d swear he would commit 


208 


LIFE. 


suicide because he couldn’t live without you, and then you’d 
tell him the truth, that he was the man you had married, and 
you would love each other dearly and be happy ever after. 
Oh, Angela,” her face all aglow, her eyes shining: think 

that’s so much nicer than all those divorce things we’ve been 
planning. Let’s suppose it will happen that way, instead.” 

And for some reason, Angela’s eyes had shown the same 
delight and her face was flushed also, as she answered 
breathlessly, ‘‘Yes, let’s.” 

From this on, Wilfrid assumed the position of a hero and 
Nan painted Angela’s future in most glowing colors, eventu- 
ally evolving from these wild fancies the present plot. The 
two girls had gone to Manila with Nan’s father on a visit 
to his brother, as he supposed, but from their standpoint, to 
carry out the long dreamed over drama, in which Angela and 
Wilfrid were to play the parts assigned them in the quiet, 
shady garden of the convent. 

The Governor of the Island was giving the ball in their 
honor. The elite of the city would be present and before 
this fashionable audience Angela was to make her debut in 
her life’s romance, on the success of which she had staked 
her all. Nan never guessed how desperately in earnest An- 
gela was. She never dreamed of the outraged pride that 
stirred within her at the memory of that wedding day over 
two years ago, or guessed the cause of the crimson flush that 
always mounted to her face at the mention of it. The pain 
and humiliation of it all! How it had galled her! When 
Nan had flrst seriously suggested the present plan, she had 
stubbornly refused to acquiesce, but finally after weighty 
deliberation and urged on by Nan’s persuasion, she had 
agreed to try it. Ever since she had given her consent, she 
had been in a state of feverish excitement, like a gambler 
who has staked his last dollar on a doubtful horse. It was 
the turning point in her life. There were great capabilities 
for either good or evil in the girl and the result of the plan 
would direct her fate. 

Nan was blissfully unconscious of Angela’s doubts, and 


LIFE. 


209 


confident in her own mind that all would end happily. She 
never doubted for an instant but that Wilfrid would tumble 
head over heels in love with the beautiful, fascinating little 
Angela. 

‘^He could not help it,” she told herself, looking admir- 
ingly at the gold-brown curls, sweet wistful eyes and tender 
bowed lips of her friend, — “no man could. Hadn^t every 
man on the ship coming over fallen a victim to their charm ?” 

So she thought and planned for her friend, insisting on 
dressing her herself on the eventful first night of her ap- 
pearance. Angela nearly always wore white. She wore it 
to-night, a dainty, clinging, trailing gown of soft silks and 
chiffons, cut low and square at the neck, the sleeves falling 
away in a lacy film from the round white arms at the elbow. 
Her hair was riotously pretty about her face, with just a 
suggestion of the white forehead and bunched in a shining 
mass of soft curls on the nape of her neck. 

She wore no jewels and carried only a dainty lace fan in 
her white ungloved hands. Altogether the little ugly duck- 
ling of Ballyhoo days had developed into a very attractive 
young woman. She was beautiful to look at ; when she spoke, 
she was more than beautiful, she was fascinating. There 
was a strange little trick of plaintive coaxing in her voice 
that was irresistible. She was smaller than her friend, and 
as she stood in front of her now, looking up at her with wist- 
ful, anxious eyes asking to know if Nan was sure she was 
pretty to-night. Nan, in her original way, was thinking what 
a pity it was that some one of the men werenT there to see 
and adore. 

“If she will only look at Lieutenant McDonald and talk 
to him that way, he can’t help loving her,” she told herself, 
as she watched Angela go over to the pier glass and look 
critically at herself. 

“Truly,” thought Nannette, “she is hard to please if she 
finds no satisfaction in what it tolls her.” 

“Nan, dear, am I pretty to-night?” Angela queried earn- 
estly, for perhaps the one-thousandth time. 


210 


LIFE. 


“You look your beautiful name, ma chere amie. I can 
say no more.” 

“Please stop jesting, like a good girl, and tell me, is it 
really so? Does my dress look well, and my hair? You are 
sure you would not like it best high on top of my head?” 

“No, Angela, the dress is perfect and your hair is just 
right. It would be a shame to put those curls into a top- 
knot; they are adorable just as they are, low on your neck, 
and the crimson roses, Angela, you must not forget them. 
There!” snatching several buds from the bowl on the table. 
“Put them just there at the side. Now; that is right. Oh, 
Angie, you are so lovely!” 

“Thank you, Nancy,” said her friend, gratefully, kissing 
her ; “you are such a comfortable kind of a girl.” 

Nan laughed merrily. “Well, you see,” she said, “I sup- 
pose we’re such friends, because we are both of us good look- 
ing enough to afford to be generous toward each other.” 

“Nancy, shame on you! I don’t believe you were ever 
serious an hour in all your life.” 

“Why, should I be, Angela?” she replied. “I never had a 
care, a sorrow, — I mean, really a deep one. I have never 
known a mother ; but then, papa has been all the world to me. 
I do as I like; people like me and give me a good time al- 
ways, and best of all, I have the dearest, ‘bestest’ chum in all 
the world,” hugging Angela like a young bear, “so you see, 
if I were sober and wore a long face, I would be most un- 
grateful for my good fortune, and deserve a worse one. So 
there!” she finished, triumphantly. 

“Yes,” confessed Angela, candidly, “I have often and often 
times envied you. Nan.” 

“Nonsense,” returned her friend, “your life could be quite 
as bright, if you only took things easy, as I do, and made 
it so. Now nothing would please me so much in the world 
as to be in your shoes, to-night.” 

“Well, you needn’t grieve; I’m sure these crazy heels are 
going to tear my petticoats or upset me and break my neck 
before the evening is over,” said Angela. 


LIFE. 


211 


Angela, weren’t you ever serious a moment in your life 
retorted her friend, mimicking Angela’s tone and words 
of a moment before. was speaking figuratively, not 
literally. 

^‘Oh, I see, and you were saying, ?” 

“That I would give anything to be in your place to-night,” 
said Nan. 

“Well, I wish that you were, and that I was rid of the 
whole thing, past, present and future,” returned Angela. 
“You look upon it as a joke. Nan, but you can’t think how 
serious it really is to me, — this little game at masquerading.” 

“Make this play a comedy instead of a tragedy,” suggested 
the irrepressible Nan. 

“I would if I could, dear, but the lines and situations do 
not admit of a single laugh, except one, perhaps, — at my ex- 
pense,” returned Angela, with a sad little smile. 

“Oh, come now,” cried Nan, “don’t cry and spoil your 
eyes and make your nose red; that’s no way to conquer a 
man or anyone else for that matter. Eemember, my dear,” 
with a wise look, “daugh and the world laughs with you; 
weep and you weep alone.’ Now, if you want to make this 
miscreant husband of yours fall head over heels in love with 
you, ogle him, flout him, smile on him, tease him; if you 
like you can try tears on him, — once in a great while they 
are very effective, if one can only know when to stop, look- 
ing pale and unhappy, — but don’t get over the border line, 
where eyelids grow red and nose bulbous and voice blubber- 
ing. Savey ?” 

“Yes,” acquiesced Angela, meekly. 

“Now, don’t ever speak to him in that tone, whatever you 
do ; that sounds like milk and water, and men like something 
stronger for an every day diet; B and S’s, and high-balls 
and champagne and all those kind of things,” scolded her 
friend, with the wisdom of youth. 

“But how can I be like B and S’s and champagne and 
things?” said Angela. 

“Oh, Angie, I never saw you such a ninny and fraid-cat 


212 


LIFE. 


before. I see you failing, flatly; and your life ruined be- 
cause you choose to wallow in the slough of despond, because 
you’re married to a man!” sighed Nan, desperately dis- 
gusted. ^‘Why, you used not to be this way. Brane up; 
fizz and sparkle, laugh, dance, sing, glance up to him with 
those yellow orbs of yours, from beneath your drooping lids, 
not mournfully, — just softly, pathetically. Men are awfully 
fond of kissing your kind of lips and making pretty speeches 
of your kind of hair and eyes. Just bombard him, while 
you hold your own heart and identity safely in the trenches, 
’till he’s drunk with love and wine 1” declaimed Nan, dramat- 
ically. 

^^Oh, Nan, I know you got that out of a book; one of those 
Sister Cecelia took away from you,” cried Angela, accus- 
ingly. 

didn’t,” irritably retorted her “dearest chum, “I made 
it all up, — all but the last part, about being drunk. But if 
you’re going to criticise, and laugh at my advice and call 
me down for everything I say. I’ll not bother another minute 
about your old marriage. You can hate each other like cats 
and dogs, and get a divorce next week, for all I care! So 
now !” and she turned her back to Angela and busied herself 
with her own black tresses, which she had neglected in con- 
templating her friend. 

“Oh, Nancy, dear, don’t!” cried Angela, penitently. “I 
was only joking; everything you say is just right and I’m 
going to obey you to the letter. I’m just nervous and afraid, 
because, — well, I don’t know how to tell you why, — ^but if 
ever you get married and your bridegroom looks as if he’d 
rather be shot, and kisses you as he’d pat a puppy, — well, if 
that ever happens, maybe you’ll understand.” 

“Did he do that? The beast!” ejaculated Nan, indig- 
nantly. I’ll not speak to him !” 

“Oh, yes ! Yes, you must,” cried Angela in alarm. “You 
must help me out, by telling him all sorts of nice things 
about me and all that, you know.” 

“About the three young officers who came over with us?” 


LIFE. 


213 


queried Nan, with a mischievous smile that made her dark 
piquant little face very pretty.. 

‘‘Oh, no! Never!’’ said Angela, looking dismayed. 

“Well, Angela, you did flirt a good deal, — for a married 
woman!” said her friend, seriously. “I thought the little 
lieutenant was going to feed himself to the fishes when you 
refused him that night on deck.” 

“Nan, dear, how could I tell them I was married without 
giving myself away and spoiling all our plans. And it’s 
mean of you to say I flirted, because I don’t even know how, 
and I wouldn’t if I could; and the day we were married, my 
husband said .” She suddenly stopped short in her ag- 

grieved little argument and grew red and confused. 

“What did your husband say?” queried Nan, eagerly. 

“Oh, nothing much. I forgot.” 

“Oh, come now, Angie; tell me. What did he say? Some- 
thing nice? Please tell me. Do, Angie, or I’ll not be your 
friend another day.” 

“Well, he he said, ” stammered Angela. 

“Yes, yes; what?” plead Nan, breathlessly. 

“Well, — that, maybe when I grew up and we met again, 
and had both been good in the meantime, ” 

“Yes?” 

“That maybe, we’d find out that our bargain wasn’t such 
a bad one after all;” she finished, turning away her head. 

“Now, I call that perfectly sweet!” said Nan. “If he 
said that, he can’t be such a boor as you would have me 
think, and I believe you’ve just been slandering him, all 
along, Angela McDonald.” 

“I never said he was a boor!” cried Angela, with red, in- 
dignant cheeks. 

“Well, you might as well have; I’ve been thinking it all 
along!” retorted Nan. 

“I can’t help what you think ! I’m not responsible for the 
workings of that remarkable brain of yours,” flashed back 
Angela. 


V 


214 


LIFE. 


Nan clapped her hands with glee and danced about her, 
laughing wickedly. 

“That’s right,” she cried; “now you’re ready for battle; 
forgive me, dearest, but I had to put spurs to you; you were 
BO glum and now, you’re lovely, and as ‘champagnified’ as 
even I could wish you !” 

But Angela was not to be appeased. Nan shook her head 
and quoted sadly, “ T had to be cruel, only to be kind !’ ” 

Angela burst out laughing. “You old dunce!” she cried, 
affectionately. “You are the nicest girl in the world.” 

And the two “dearest chums” kissed each other half a 
dozen times. 

“Come, we must be going down,” said Nan. “I heard 
wheels and I’m sure it must be almost time for ^the party.’ ” 

“Just give me one more look over,” pleaded Angela, “and 
tell me if I could be better.” 

“Not to save your life; you’re a dream of loveliness!” her 
friend assured her. “Now, come along and don’t trip up 
with those heels.” 

“Yes,” said Angela, “and don’t you forget to call me 
Amie, and remember I’m Mademoiselle Gerard. It was 
mamma’s name and I’ve the right to use it, you think, don’t 
you, Nancy?” 

“Surely. Why not?” asked she, coming to a standstill on 
the step below her friend. “Now, don’t begin getting scrupu- 
lous or your cards will tumble down. Be just as sweet and 
cruel and warm and cold as you know how. All is fair in 
love and war; now, come on to Victory!” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


^'journeys end in lovers meeting.^^ 

“You stood before me like a thought, 

A dream remembered in a dream.” 

— Coleridge. 

The Governor's palace was ablaze with lights and the 
great reception room with its banks of flowers and palms was 
as enchanting as some abode of fairy land. A regimental 
band was discoursing entrancing music from some hidden 
nook and the warm night air was cooled by the light fresh 
breeze which came a-wandering from the harbor beyond. 

The two girls caught their breath with delight as they en- 
tered the room and took their places beside His Excellency 
and the reception committee. 

“See, Angela,” whispered Nan, ecstatically, “even the 
fairies are with you to-night; all will be well, I know.” 

“I feel so, too,” replied Angela. “I don’t know why, but 
I am happy. Nan, — and just a little bit afraid.” 

“Nonsense,” said Nan, “just keep up your courage; you 
look lovely** 

“Thank you,” answered Angela, “and Nan, you keep quite 
close to me; I might do something funny, feel faint or some- 
thing of the kind, you understand, when I hear your uncle 
speak his name. How funny,” she added, laughing a little, 
“how very funny to be introduced to one’s own husband!” 

“Sh!” warned her friend. “Don’t get upset, now. Oh, 
here come some folks!” 

General Porter and his son, a young lieutenant in the 12th 
— and his two daughters were the arrivals. Others followed 
quickly, until within the hour every one of the three great 
drawing rooms and the long verandas were packed to the 


216 


LIFE. 


limit. It was a beautiful and interesting sight to the two 
girls in whose honor the ball was being given. Full dress 
uniforms of every branch of the service were to be seen. It 
was a mixed assembly, a gorgeous array of superbly gowned 
women from all climes, with an effective grouping of civil- 
ians in regulation dress. A few native ladies of high caste 
in their artistic national dress and magnificent jewels, were 
noticeable. Nan and Angela had gradually grown so ab- 
sorbed in watching the crowd around them that they had al- 
most forgotten their duties as the principal members of the 
Governor’s party, and the object which had brought them 
there. Angela had just shaken hands with little Burt, of the 
4th, who had immediately surrendered to the smile she be- 
stowed on him as she cordially assured him that she was 
“delighted to have the pleasure.” 

“Jove!” muttered the little fellow as he looked into the 
golden eyes that were on a level with his own brown ones, 
“what eyes!” Nothing would have pleased him better than 
to have stopped right where he was and sun himself in their 
light the rest of his life, but the crowd pushed him on and 
he was perforce obliged to move on to the sprightly Nan, 
who stood next to her, and thence on down the line. 

“Gee!” he said to MacIntyre, who followed him out to the 
veranda, where they stationed themselves at an open window 
just opposite the Governor’s party and where, once in a 
while, a chance vacancy or break in the ranks afforded them 
a momentary glimpse of the two girls. 

“What are you ^gee-ing’ about?” asked MacIntyre. 

“That girl with the yellow eyes. My goodness, but isn’t 
she a beauty !” answered Burt, rapturously. 

“Awfully pretty, both of them,” assented his friend. “The 
dark one’s more to my notion. All sorts of go and dash 
about her, from the looks of her.” 

“Yes,” said the little cavalryman, “but the other one; 
those eyes! Look at ’em. I’d like to see the fellow they 
couldn’t make crawl.” 

MacIntyre laughed. “Got it again, sonny?” he teased. 


LIFE. 


217 


^‘Oh, cut it out,” growled Burt. damned tired of you 

fellows poking fun at my affairs.” 

“Beg your pardon, sonny,” replied his friend, goodnatur- 
edly. Inwardly, he thought, “Well, he must be knocked out 
for sure, this time; never knew him to kick before.” 

A short time after Burt and his brother officer had passed 
on. Nan caught Angela by the arm. “Look!” she whispered, 
“Look ! Is that dream your husband ? Is that he ?” 

Angela grew strangely faint. “Where ?” she asked, weakly. 

“Over there, by the entrance door. Now, here he is com- 
ing this way. See? Oh, I just imagine it’s he!” whispered 
her friend, excitedly. 

Angela followed the direction of her glance and Nan saw 
her grow white, felt the hand in heFs contract and knew 
that she guessed aright. 

By the time the young officer had reached them, Angela 
recovered herself. A sudden rush of crimson flooded her 
face and her eyes reflected the glow on her cheeks. 

His Excellency shook hands cordially with the handsome 
lieutenant and turned to the girl beside him: “Lieutenant 
McDonald, my niece’s friend, and my guest. Miss Gerard.” 

Did Wilfrid start ever so slightly and gaze quickly, scru- 
tinizingly at the girl whose icy little hand lay for a moment 
in his own, or was it Nan’s overwrought imagination? 

As in a dream Angela felt rather than saw his eyes bent 
upon hers, as his warm fingers closed lightly for a second 
over her own. 

She lifted her face and smiled faintly. Nan would have 
averred, adorably. And so it seemed to have been felt by 
the young officer, for he passed on to Nan and down the line 
without removing his eyes from the lovely face. With a de- 
sire for a post of observation, like Burt and MacIntyre, he 
sought the same window where they had stationed themselves 
a few minutes previously. 

“Hello!” he cried, as he came upon them. “What are you 
doing here?” 


218 


LIFE. 


‘‘Well, I like that!’^ said Burt. “What the h are you 

doing here 

“Burt’s on the warpath,” broke in Macintwre, laughing. 

“What’s the trouble, sonny?” inquired Wilfrid. 

The little cavalryman drew his brows together and made 
no answer. MacIntyre laughed again. “He’s smitten with 
the eyes over yonder,” he explained. 

“The h he is!” growled Wilfrid, to the mutual sur- 

prise of the other two. MacIntyre laughed a third time. 
“Another knockout!” he said, as though he were enjoying 
himself immensely at his brother oiBBcers’ expense. Little 
Burt rose, threw back his shoulders and strutted away. Mac- 
Intyre, after a short while, made some excuse and followed 
him, leaving Wilfrid the sole occupant of the rustic seat 
and master of the position. 

“A great nerve he’s got on him,” muttered that young man, 
with unreasoning anger against little Burt. 

Everyone having arrived, the receiving committee wan- 
dered away in different directions, some seeking the cool 
verandas, some the supper rooms, or joining their friends in 
the various parts of the drawing rooms. This was the 
chance for which Wilfrid had been watching. He was just 
on the point of rising and going toward Angela, when she 
came directly to the window outside of which he stood. Nan 
was just behind her, and as they neared it, MacIntyre and 
Burt joined them. 

As Angela recognized the smiling little fellow she smiled 
back at him, charmingly. 

Wilfrid, looking on under cover of the darkness, swore 
softly, but emphatically. 

“Now, what the devil does she want to waste those on a 
little two-by-four like Burt,” he thought, vexedly. 

Another moment and the four had stepped out on the 
porch and were at his side. 

He rose and offered his seat to the ladies and was moving 
off when Nan’s voice stopped him, “We are all going around 


LIFE. 


219 


to the supper room. Won’t you join us, Lieutenant McDon- 
ald?” 

The young man blessed her in his heart. He glanced at 
Angela and imagined she had frowned slightly. 

His spirits went down to zero, but he braced up. “Faint 
heart ne’er won fair lady,” thought he, so he laughed pleas- 
antly. 

“Thank you, I will be delighted, if I will not be de trop/" 
said he. He looked at Angela again, hoping for a slight sign 
of pleasure or approval, but even her displeasure had van- 
ished and only absolute indifference was visible in her ex- 
pression. The young man was piqued. 

“I believe, after all, I will have to decline your very kind 

invitation, Miss ,” he said, regretfully. “I had 

forgotten for the moment that I promised to join General 
and Miss Porter at my earliest convenience, and they are 
probably looking for me now.” 

It was a lucky play. His heart beat high as he saw An- 
gela flush and cast a quick glance at him. Her eyes met his 
own for an instant, then dropped. 

“Perhaps you will join us later,” she murmured, trying to 
appear natural. 

“Thanks, I will,” he replied, and left them. 

“Oh, dear, it is so cool and nice out here after standing so 
long in that hot room,” said Nan, lazily fanning herself. 
“Won’t you gentlemen be good enough to bring us our ices 
here? Don’t you think it would be ever so much pleasanter 
than going inside again ?” 

They assured her that they agreed with her and sped away 
to do her bidding. The moment they were out of sight and 
hearing, Nan turned sharply to Angela, “You little ninny,” 
she said, “you almost spoiled my first hand. If you don’t 
sharpen your wits and dull your pride, you will lose the 
whole game.” 

“I’m sorry,” replied Angela, meekly, “but I can’t bear to 
kow-tow to him, in any way, Nancy.” 

“That isn’t the idea, silly,” remonstrated her friend. 


220 


LIFE. 


‘All’s fair in love and war,’ and you’ve got to win, do you 
hear? You’ve got to win; and you can, if you will.” 

“Do you really think so?” questioned Angela, earnestly. 

“Oh, Nan, how did I get through the ordeal? I felt as if 
I’d gone to sleep all over and couldn’t break away. Did I say 
things right? Did I do things right?” 

“Yes,” assured Nan, “that much was fine, and he bowled 
right over. Couldn’t you see it?” 

“Why, no. Did he really?” said Angela, innocently, sur- 
prised and more pleased than she would have acknowledged, 
even to herself. 

“Why, certainly; and that is the reason he wouldn’t come 
to supper with us. You wouldn’t back up my invitation and 
he was piqued,” explained Miss Wiseacre. 

“I thought — something — told me so,” acknowledged An- 
gela, “that was why I asked him to join us later.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing you did, and I’m glad you had 
that much sense,” replied her friend, patronizingly. 

“Now, when he does join us,” she went on, cautiously low- 
ering her voice, still more, “be very sweet until you have got 
him sure, then treat him as mean as ever you like, but get 
him first.” 

“I declare. Nan, you’re a regular hardened criminal,” said 
Angela, “an accomplished flirt. Where did you learn so 
much ?” 

“Never mind where I got my information,” replied Miss 
Nancy, sagely. “You just mind what I say and do as I tell 
you.” 

“Do — do — ^you like him?” ventured Angela, after a mo- 
ment’s silence. 

“I think he is adorable,” cried the enthusiastic Nan, “and 
if he’s as good as he looks, I wish he were my husband.” 

“I wish he ,” began the adorable’s wife, and stopped. 

“There, there, I knew you’d fall in love with him, ha, ha,” 
laughed Nan, “I knew it! A week ago you would have fin- 
ished your sentence, you would have wished — well — ; now, 
you stop and think twice and decide you don’t wish any- 


LIFE. 


221 


thing of the kind? Oh, this is fine,” and she laughed out so 
merrily that the young men, returning with their ices, feared 
some amusing usurper had taken their vacant places. 

They were much relieved to find their fears groundless 
and the merry quartette were soon deep in the mysteries of 
ices, bon-bons and various other confections, the result of 
the raid of the two cavalrymen on the supper room. 

“WeVe got whole armfuls of loot!” announced little Burt, 
cheerfully. 

^‘That’s good,” said Nan. hope youVe got something 
cool.” 

“Here,” said MacIntyre, producing a cold bottle, “I made 
an attack on this ‘branch of the service,’ ” laughing at his 
own wit, “with the sole object in view of pleasing you ladies.” 

“They’ll soon know how much of that to believe,” an- 
swered Burt, getting back at him. 

“That will do, sonny,” returned his friend, “little boys 
should be seen and not heard.” 

The little man flushed and winced slightly at this allusion 
to his size, of which he was needlessly sensitive, as his manly 
proportions prevented any appearance of insignificance. 

“The greatest soldier and ruler the world ever knew was 
just your size, Mr. Burt,” said Angela, kindly, in a tone that 
implied it was just what she most admired in all the world, 
and sent Burt with a bound to the seventh heaven of delight. 

“Come, people, I’m starving and all the ices are melting,” 
interposed Nan to relieve the awkward moment; for MacIn- 
tyre had not failed to understand Angela’s gently conveyed 
reproof. 

“Yes, let’s make an attack. May I fill your glass. Miss 
Gerard ?” said Burt, leaning towards her with the champagne 
bottle. 

“No, thank you,” she said, stopping him. “I — I never care 
for anything. Sometimes in France I drank a little of the 
native wines, but nothing else.” 

Burt looked into her eyes just for an instant, admiringly. 

“Have some. Miss Beaufort?” he asked. 


222 


LIFE. 


‘^Aye, to the insufficient brim,” quoted Nan, laughingly. 

At this moment Wilfrid rejoined them. 

^^Won^t you come to our tea-party?” smiled Angela. 

^‘With all the pleasure imaginable,” said the young officer. 

^^Ah, you rascals are so intent on getting your own throats 
cool that you are neglecting the ladies,” he exclaimed, notic- 
ing Angolans empty glass, as he raised the bottle to fill his 
own. 

“Miss Gerard does not take anything,” said Burt, bursting 
with his important, superior knowledge. 

“Ah, indeed, — I did not know,” replied Wilfrid, looking 
earnestly at the girl, who was blushing furiously. 

He wondered why she blushed every time he glanced at 
her. Was it that she liked him — or the contrary? It was 
impossible to tell. He was only conscious of one thing : that 
he was more interested in her than in any woman he had 
ever met. For the first time he had misgivings of the pow- 
ers of his own attractions. Angela did not seem in the least 
overcome by his fascinations, and he felt, surrounded as she 
was by admirers, that it would be a stiff fight to secure the 
position of favorite. Besides the attraction of her wonder- 
ful beauty, there was something familiar about her for 
which he could not account. Something faintly suggestive 
of past acquaintance, like a dream. Every time she looked 
up at him he felt it, and once in a while a little trick of 
Speech startled him. There was something — something — it 
puzzled and racked his brain, but he could not understand. 

“Probably I met her somewhere before in the States,” he 
thought. “1^11 find out when I know her better, or question 
Miss Beaufort.” 

Aloud he said: 

“You are recently from France, I believe. Miss Gerard?” 

“Yes,” she replied, lowering her white lids, “I was edu- 
cated there.” 

^Wou seem more like an English woman by your accent, 
or even an American. Have you ever been in America?” 


LIFE. 


223 


She raised her head and looked him straight in the- eyes, 
her own very bright and defiant. 

‘^Once, long ago, when I was a little girl,” she replied. 
Her eyes seemed to dare and at the same time forbid any 
further questioning. 

“Ah, I see,” said Wilfrid, faintly, surprised and much 
embarrassed. “I was only wondering why your face and — 
manner seemed so familiar to me. Pardon what may have 
seemed idle curiosity.” 

“Don’t distress yourself,” laughed Angela, “you haven’t 
sinned past forgiveness,” and Nan, who had been turning 
hot and cold with fear during this adroit fencing, skilfully 
changed the conversation. 

“How attractive the Luneta is,” she remarked. “It is the 
most interesting kind of social gathering I ever saw. Uncle 
took Amie and I out for an hour last evening. We are beg- 
ging to be allowed to go out on horseback to-morrow.” 

“The beach is splendid after the tide goes out,” said Wil- 
frid, eagerly. “May I have the pleasure, the honor of escort- 
ing you ladies to-morrow afternoon?” 

Angela cast a little frightened glance at Nan, which was 
returned reassuringly. 

“If uncle will allow us, we will be delighted,” she said. 

“We might — might — make up a party, mightn’t we?” ven- 
tured Angela, glancing at Burt. 

Nan was watching Wilfrid and nearly laughed outright 
with delight and amusement at his evident resentment and 
jealous indignation. 

“Oh, this is too good,” she chuckled, inwardly. 

“That’s awfully kind of you, Miss Gerard,” said the little 
cavalryman, gratefully. “I will be happier than I can ex- 
press to accept your invitation.” 

“You, too, Mr. MacIntyre?” chimed in Nan sweetly, giving 
him, with the coveted invitation, a glance of pretty entreaty, 
for Nan was a born flirt. 

“Certainly, Mr. MacIntyre, too,” broke in Angela, not 
having intended any slight. “I said the whole party.” 


224 


LIFE. 


^‘Thank you both, I will be delighted,” said that gentle- 
man. 

So it was decided that if His Excellency's permission 
could be gained, the little party would “make a day of it,” 
as Burt expressed it, on the morrow. 

By this time the dancing had begun and the hostess came 
looking for her hide-away charges and bore them off to the 
ballroom. 

The gentlemen soon followed. Burt managed to get to 
Angela’s side first and put his name down for several dances. 
This filled up her card except for one number, the last waltz. 
Angela couldn’t have told why she had reserved that especial 
number, that last waltz, which is always half tender, half 
sad. 

As she went by on the arm of a tall young infantry man 
she saw her husband watching her from a nook near one of 
the windows, talking abstractedly to a pretty girl in pale 
blue. She had evidently failed to interest him, as his ab- 
sorbed glances followed Angela’s graceful little white-clad 
figure around the room. 

Keturning the young lady in blue to her mamma, as soon 
as politeness permitted, he made his way to Angela’s side. 
She was sitting out a schottische with little Burt, and as he 
drew near he heard her laughing merrily at something he 
was telling her. She seemed to be enjoying herself so much 
with Burt that Wilfrid hesitated about intruding, but as he 
stood undecided, she turned and saw him. For a moment 
she caught her breath, but recovering herself quickly, bade 
him welcome to their cool nook. 

Poor child, her position was an unenviable one 1 Nan had 
told her that if she wished to win her husband she must 
make him jealous. She was woman enough to enjoy this, if 
it would not cause unpleasant complications when her iden- 
tity became known to him, but she felt guilty in the part she 
was playing in this game of hearts, and his slight recogni- 
tion of her filled her with alarm. She fancied somehow that 
he knew more than she dreamed. And now, the scowl on his 


LIFE. 


225 


brow when he recognized her companion, she mistook for an 
angry knowledge of her seeming unwifely position. 

But in a moment she realized that this was not the case, 
and in a measure recovering herself, she asked him if he 
were not dancing. 

“Not as much as I would like,” he replied. “I have a 
memento of Cuba in a leg that is still slightly stiff, and I 
have to be a little careful for a while yet.” 

“Oh, dear, were you hurt fighting in Cuba?” she asked 
with anxious eyes. 

“Oh, not very much,” he answered, carelessly. “Come, 
have you anything left for me. Miss Gerard? I hope you 
didn’t entirely forget me.” 

Angela looked over her card, frowning prettily. 

“I don’t believe there is one open ” 

“Damn my luck,” muttered Wilfrid to himself with an- 
other scowl. 

“Did you speak, Mr. — Mr. — ?” 

“McDonald,” he supplemented. “No, I didn’t speak.” 

“I was going to say,” mused the girl, running her eyes 
over the card again, “that there isn’t a single one open — ex- 
cept the last waltz. Would you like that?” 

“Would I?” rapturously. 

“Well, then, put your name down for it; or you needn’t 
bother, I will not forget it.” 

“Nor I,” added Wilfrid, significantly, and he left the cou- 
ple once more alone. 

For the next two hours time hung heavy on his hands. 
Those who sought out the popular young officer were politely 
but firmly rebuffed. He wanted to sit hidden away some- 
where and watch ''her** every moment. 

At last the band began to breathe, it was scarcely more, so 
soft and plaintive was the melody, the Dr^m song from 
“The Serenaders.” 

As Wilfrid came towards Angela to claim her at last for 
his own, he involuntarily held out his arms, and after one 
8 


226 


LIFE. 


happy, tender glance of mutual understanding, she went into 
them, naturally, restfully; her pretty head, with its damp, 
curling love-locks, seemed to almost nestle against his breast 
as they swayed to the music which filled the flower-laden air 
and lifted them, intoxicated with its sweetness, far above 
the rest of the world. Just for the brief five minutes did 
Angela let herself go, and in them she lived five thousand 
years of delight. Wilfrid, his lips pale and his blue eyes 
tender as heaven’s own, tightened his clasp about her sweet 
body, and his breath fanned the little tendrils of hair on her 
soft bare neck. The young soldier had been “in love” many 
time before, but felt that he had never *‘loved'' ’till now. 

And Angela — she simply melted unresistingly into his 
strong, burning clasp, and knew that she was his for all eter- 
nity. About them other couples had begun to sing the lines 
in time to the melody: 

“I thought it was a kiss. 

And it was just an idle dream.” 

“Then I wish I could dream on and on forever,” said Wil- 
frid, passionately. 

“Are you so happy tonight?” she asked him. 

“So happy that I wish to dream and dream, and never 
wake again,” he replied. 

“I — I am happy, too — for some reason,” she murmured. 
“The flowers, the air, the music, oh, this beautiful, beautiful 
music !” 

“Is that the only reason you are happy?” he asked, jeal- 
ously. 

“Why, isn’t^ — isn’t all that enough?” she replied, softly 
evasive. 

“No,” he answered, flercely; then remembering, continued 
imploringly, “I — had hoped that maybe — Oh, there I’m a 
fool, an ass, forgive me, I — ^ — ” 

The music had throbbed away into nothingness. Angela 
aroused herself with an effort. 


LIFE. 


227 


^‘That was lovely, wasn’t it, lieutenant?” she said brightly, 
despite the beating of her heart, the mad whirling of her 
brain. 

Wilfrid held out his hand. 

^‘Good night,” he said, hoarsely, ‘‘may you dream always, 
beautiful dreams, good night.” 

****** 

Half an hour later Han found her friend on her knees be- 
side the bed in her little white gown, her head buried in the 
pillow. 

“Why, Angie, what’s the matter?” she asked in surprised 
alarm. 

Angela lifted her head, her eyes shining through happy 
tears. 

“Oh, Han,” she cried hysterically, “I am happy, happy, 
happy, so happy to-night I” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


A STRANGE GHOST. 

“Heaven Is but the vision of fulfilled desire, 

And Hell the shadow from a soul on fire.” 

— Omar Khayyam. 

Two weeks of pleasure and adventure had flown by, during 
which the Governor’s party and the young officers, MacIn- 
tyre, Burt and McDonald, in company with various others, 
of course, had been together almost daily. There had been 
dances at the club at which Wilfrid miraculously recovered 
the use of his leg, dancing dftener than the rest of them, 
jealously resentful of anyone who dared request the privilege 
of a waltz with Angela. There had been long excursions on 
horseback into the country, where Angela listened with sym- 
pathetic eyes to the tales of capture and slaughter; viewed 
with intense interest the ruins of Tondo, the old church of 
La Loma, which after a sharp battle had been stripped of its 
sacred vestments and transformed into barracks for the 
American troops. 

She was a little soldier, was Angela. Her father’s spirit 
which had perforce laid dormant in the quiet convent life, 
asserted itself as she walked over battlefields and ruined 
fortresses with their records of blood. Here with eyes glow- 
ing and her hands clinched, she would seem to grow taller, 
so vividly alive was she in her patriotism. And at such 
times it was a hard task for Wilfrid to restrain himself 
from catching her in his arms and kissing the war-gleam 
from her golden eyes and filling them with a softer light. 

^^Oh, I wish I were a man,” she said, one day, breath- 
less with feeling. 

She was standing above him on the porch of the old cathe- 


LIFE. 


229 


dral of La Loina, which was then in use as a signal service 
station. She cast her eyes about her, as with lifted head she 
stood, her soul filled with aspirations called forth by her 
surroundings. It was the spirit that animated the Maid of 
Orleans, — that has burned in many a woman’s breast and 
which custom has denied expression. There is no unwoman- 
liness in this love of battle. The best women are best in all 
things. And mayhap the gentlest wife and tenderest mother 
would make the bravest soldier. The world so often forgets 
that woman is half the offspring of man and in her nature 
there are as likely to be attributes of the father as of the 
mother. And these instincts can only beat and beat and beat 
themselves hopelessly, helplessly against the bars of conven- 
tionality when the outward and visible form must needs wear 
petticoats. 

So it was with Angela, daughter of a great soldier, stand- 
ing like some war horse on the field of battle, sniffing the 
powder of the enemy and waiting for the sounding of the 
“Charge!” At all other times the essence of womanly 
sweetness, at such a crisis, wanting only the sword of her 
father to make her as gallant a warrior. 

“Come,” said Wilfrid, after watching her in silence for 
several moments, “give me your hands and let me help you 
down. It is getting late and the others will soon be coming 
back.” 

“Oh, I wish I were a man and could fight for my country !” 
she said, regretfully leaving her post. 

“Well, I don’t,” said Wilfrid. ^Wou are much nicer and 
sweeter just as you are. Don’t you know that a woman can 
serve her country as well as a man by being a soldier’s wife ?” 

“Oh, that’s what you men always say,” replied Angela. 
“How can that help any when armies are clashing, bullets 
flying, sabres slashing and life-blood soaking the ground?” 
Wilfrid smiled a little and his voice was full of tender mean- 
ing when he answered her. 

“It helps more than you can know. It helps more than 
anything else in the world. If a man must go to fight, it is 


230 


LIFE. 


more bravely done for knowing there is a girl he left behind 
him who’ll be waiting for him when it’s over. If there is a 
victory gained, it is a thousand times over a victory for 
knowing that ^some one’ at home will be glad. Or — if a man 
must fall in his country’s cause — above the din of the 
battlefield he will go to his God with a cleaner soul for hav- 
ing kissed a woman good-bye, when he went out in the morn- 
ing not to return at eve. And oh, my dear, when the man is 
true, and strong, and brave, it will not hurt the woman, 
either, to remember that she has kissed a soldier good-bye.” 

^‘Ah, I never knew they cared so much,” whispered Angela, 
softly. “If that is so, then I will be content to play my wo- 
man’s part, and when I hear the call of the bugles, the roll 
of the drums, I will forget that the hot blood is mounting in 
my veins — forget myself and remember that I am a woman, 
and that I can help, and perhaps there’ll be some one who 
will need me and I, too, will 

“Will?” questioned her companion, eagerly. 

“Will — will — that’s all, isn’t it?” she asked, laughing a 
little nervously. 

“Oh, no,” said he, disappointedly, “you left out the most 
important part.” 

“Did I? I don’t remember. What was it I said?” she re- 
plied, blushing. 

“Will?” he prompted her persistently. 

“Will — kiss a soldier good-bye,” she finished, flushing. 

“No, no; not any old soldier, cried Wilfrid, anxiously. 
“Just a special one, some one that loved you, you know.” 

“Then suppose he didn’t get killed after all,” said, Angela, 
doubtfully. 

“Well, so much the better; you aren’t kissing him to kill 
him, are you? Let your kiss be one of the amulet sort that 
brings a fellow out all right. Then he will come back and 
you will be married — and — all that sort of thing,” hazily. 
“Of course, you’d be married; there would be no use in sav- 
ing a fellow’s life and making him die a harder death after- 


LIFE. 


231 


wards. And then you — we — I mean the other fellow and you 
would marry and live happily ever afterwards. See?” 

“No, not exactly,” replied Angela, wondering at the cool- 
ness with which he half proposed to a girl when he had a 
wife. Then she suddenly threw a bomb shell into the midst 
of his blissful thoughts. 

“Would you be awfully happy if you had a wife, lieuten- 
ant?” she asked, innocently. 

The young officer jumped as if he had been shot and looked 
at her with distended eyes, turning first crimson and then 
pale. 

“Why — I — what — what a funny question. Miss Gerard!” 
he stammered, with an uncertain, sickly attempt to laugh. 

“I beg your pardon,” she returned, coldly, turning away 
with great dignity and displeasure. “I assure you I had no 
idea that so simple a question would be so unpleasant to 
you.” 

“Oh, Miss Gerard, now don’t — now listen, I apol ” be- 

gan Wilfred, deprecatingly. She made an impatient move- 
ment with her hand as if to dismiss the subject. 

. “Oh, pray don’t take the trouble to apologize,” she said, 
“it Was entirely my fault; I had no right to ask such a per- 
sonal question, even jokingly, on so short an acquaintance.” 

“How can you speak to me like that?” said the young offi- 
cer, imploringly, his voice penitent, his gray eyes hungering 
for forgiveness. She turned to him with a half smile, which 
seemed the reflection of a tear, for the eyes were very pa- 
thetic. 

“Never mind,” she said, “help me to mount. We had bet- 
ter be off; as you say. Nan and the others will have beaten 
us to the meeting place, long ago.” 

He did as she requested and they rode on some time in 
silence. She kept a little ahead of him, her face turned aside. 
Presently he spoke, unable to endure the constraint a mo- 
ment longer. 

“Miss Gerard, — you are not angry with me, are you ? You 
— you are breaking my heart with your evident displeasure. 


232 


LIFE. 


If you only knew and understood, you would be kind, I 
know — not harsh. Some day, if you will let me, I will ex- 
plain. I must get up my courage first, though, for in every- 
thing concerning you, I am a coward.” 

“Why — a coward?” she asked, not looking at him. 

“Because — because I — am afraid of myself — afraid of you. 
Afraid I will say something I have no right to — because — . 
There, you see, I am a coward; I cannot tell you why ‘be- 
cause.’ ” 

She tightened her rein ever so little and allowed the young 
officer to overtake her, turning her face, full of mute pain, 
to him, when, in spite of herself, two great tears came into 
her golden eyes. 

“My — my God I” cried Wilfred, hoarsely, “don’t — don’t — 
for God’s sake, don’t look at me like that. I’ve told you^I 
am a coward — ” and he held his reins in one hand, his crop 
in the other, until the blue veins on his hands stood out like 
whipcord. 

The girl gave her horse a sharp cut ; he sprang forward on 
a run and soon left her companion far behind; Wilfrid un- 
derstood and did not. attempt to overtake her. When he 
finally rejoined her they were very near the meeting place, 
and when they arrived, they found, as Angela had predicted, 
the entire party awaiting them. 

“What a long time you’ve been,” said Nan with well 
feigned innocence, but with the devil dancing in her black 
eyes. “There must have been something very interesting — 
in the woods.” 

“We’ve been resting on the porch of old La Loma cathe- 
dral and I’ve been explaining the signal service code to Miss 
Gerard,” said Wilfrid, lying beautifully. 

Angela’s lips twitched with a faint smile and Nan, on the 
lookout for other signs than the signal service code, said : 

“Indeed,” and inwardly rejoiced. 

“We’ve missed you dreadfully,” said little Burt, trotting 
up alongside of Angela, “just dreadfully. There hasn’t been 
any fun at all without you.” 


LIFE. 


233 


“I’m sorry,” replied Angela, kindly, “you should have come 
with our party. Why didn’t you? You know you are al- 
ways welcome.” 

“You can be the kindest girl and say the nicest things,” 
said the little chap, gratefully, fully recompensed by her 
words and smile for his lonely day. Angela laughed brightly. 

“Then you should prove the truth of your statement by 
always remaining within earshot of my remarks,” she said, 
jokingly. 

“Oh, if I thought — if I only dared!** murmured Burt. 

It was on the tip of Angela’s tongue to tell him he could 
always accompany her in the future if he liked, but she 
checked the generous impulse. She honestly admired and 
respected the little cavalry officer. But she knew that any 
encouragement that would tend to raise his hopes would be 
cruel. His manliness had appealed to her more than anyone 
she had ever met — except Wilfrid. She recognized the spirit 
which made him the favorite of the entire regiment. 

“Yes, Miss,” his first sergeant had told her once, ‘^e took 
the clothes off his back, the shoes off his feet and the food 
from his mouth to give his men on the march through the 
North. And all the time, a-cheering them up and making 
them laugh and forget to be hungry and tired, or ashamed 
to own it if they was, with him leading of them on so plucky. 
It’s them little fellows that fights like the devils in ’em. 
Sure, and ain’t I seen every other man and officer in the 
company, a-flat on their bellies, fighting from ambush, and 
he never gitting off’n his horse, a-riding up and down his 
line, telling us to %ive ’em hell, boys, give ’em hell,’ with 
never a thought of the bullets whizzing all about his head.” 

“He is a brave officer, and I admire him as much as you 
do,” Angela had replied, warmly. 

^^es, ma’am,” replied the sergeant, well pleased, “little in 
body, great in soul; that’s why we call him Officer ^Nappy’ 
’mongst ourselves, that’s for Napoleon, you know. And they 
ain’t a one of us that don’t hope to see him Lieutenant Gen- 
eral of the army some of these days.” 


234 


LIFE. 


“I hope so, too,’^ answered Angela, as she touched her 
horse and moved away. 

She was very tender with his love, at the same time tact- 
ful in avoiding any expression of it. He never knew that 
she understood and was happy, if not satisfied, in the cordial 
friendship offered him. He stood waiting her pleasure now, 
and as she glanced at him he begged persuasively to be al- 
lowed to ride the rest of the way with her. Angela glanced 
quickly at her husband, who was a little apart from the rest, 
sitting very straight and still on his great black horse. His 
profile, which was turned towards her, showed his face rigid 
and his lips compressed. 

Her heart went out to him in a great wave of love and 
pity. How she would have liked to have galloped to his side 
and put her arms about his neck right then and there. Even 
as she thought this. Miss Porter rode up and addressed him. 
With a little jealous twinge Angela turned to Burt: 

^‘Yes, you may ride with me,” she said. will be glad to 
have you.” 

****** 

That night as Wilfrid rode home his mind was full of 
tender thoughts of his love. How strangely she had acted, 
almost as though 

“Oh, Pm a conceited ass,” he ejaculated, truthfully, “but 
if it were any other woman in the world, I would swear she 
loved me. Why should she be so deeply affected one way or 
the other by what I said? Why those tears, if she had not 
cared?” He would hope with all his heart and soul for such 
an ending to that gloriously sweet waltz of just one week 
ago. 

How he regretted all those past mockeries of the holy pas- 
sion in the light of this real love. Angela — ^he scarcely ever 
thought of his child-wife, but her little black-robed figure, 
as he had last seen her, rose to reproach his infidelity. 

And Mary ? He wondered how she was and what had hap- 
pened since his departure? He rapidly calculated the time. 
Why, it must be ! As he realized that ten months had 


LIFE. 


235 


passed since that last night of the old year he shivered, al- 
though the night was warm to suffocation; he shuddered 
again violently as his horse suddenly balked and whinnied 
at a figure which appeared in the road just in front of him. 
He spurred the animal angrily and struck her sharply on the 
flank. The mare sprang forward but stopped within a few 
feet so suddenly that she almost unseated him. The figure, 
he saw now that it was a woman^s, had seemed to cross the 
path again! 

‘‘Keep out of the way there, will you?” shouted Wilfrid 
loudly in angry fear. 

The woman turned towards him and he imagined that she 
clasped a little baby in her arms. In spite of his anger he 
felt ashamed that he had spoken so roughly to her. 

“Here,” he said, thinking to condone his offense, “here, let 
me pass, my good woman,” and he pitched her a silver dollar. 
To his horror the figure faded from his sight and only the 
silver coin shining white in the moonlight bore witness that 
he had not been the victim of his imagination. A cold sweat 
broke from every pore, as a strange, uncanny laugh rang in 
his ears from nowhere. 

He brushed his hand across his eyes. 

“IVe been on the water-wagon a month,” he muttered, 
hoarsely, “but by jiminy, IVe got Vm, somehow!” 

He spurred his mare again and she started on a run. He 
gave her full rein and she galloped madly along. They were 
nearing a big bridge made famous by a sharp battle 
between the insurgents and the troops. As her fore 
feet rested on the entrance to the bridge, she stopped 
suddenly for the third time and neighed loudly. 
Wilfrid looked ahead of him. There standing in the 
moonlight was the same woman who had crossed his 
path twice before. He grew dizzy and his teeth chattered. 
He wondered vaguely, as a drunken man, how she chanced 
to be there. How could she have possibly passed him and 
reached this point, and on foot too! He closed his eyes and 
bent forward, resting his forhead on the pommel of his sad- 


236 


LIFE. 


die, he felt himself growing faint. Suddenly a terrible 
shriek rent the air. There was a faint splash and one low 
moan that seemed to come from the very depths of the 
earth. It vibrated and echoed through the air, the water and 
the trees. Even the horse beneath him shuddered convul- 
sively and whinnied piteously. 

“I am mad,” thought the young soldier, “I am mad. I 
must get back to quarters. With a final effort he shook the 
reins again and spurring the mare till the blood spurted 
from her bleeding fianks, sped madly on to the barracks. 
He scarcely knew how he reached them: his orderly came 
forward and started at the appearance of both master and 
horse. 

^^Some brandy,” gasped Wilfrid, swaying in the saddle, 
his face livid. 

The man rushed away and quickly returned with a flask. 
The young officer raised it to his lips and swallowed the 
burning contents to the last drop, while the orderly looked 
on amazed. Wilfrid lurched from his saddle and pointing 
to the mare’s bleeding sides, waved the orderly back when 
he would have assisted him. In another moment he was in 
his room, the door closed. 

^‘Now what the devil!” said the orderly, wonderingly, as he 
led the mare to the stable, looking with compassionate eyes 
at the evidences of his master’s mad ride. 

Meanwhile, Wilfrid, paralyzed with drink, slept profound- 
ly until morning. When he awoke he rubbed his eyes to 
brush the cobwebs from his brain. ^^What was it?” he pon- 
dered; but not a single incident could he recall of the night’s 
events. Nor did he ever remember them until weeks after- 
wards and when he did they rang out the death knell of his 
future. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE PASSING OP BURT. 


"The muffled drum’s sad roll has beat 
The soldier’s last tattoo ; 

No more on life’s parade shall meet 
That brave and fallen few. 

On Fame’s eternal camping-ground 
Their silent tents are spread, 

And Glory guards with solemn round 
The bivouac of the dead.’’ 

— Theodore O’Hara. 


The memorable conversation on the church porch at La 
Loma had taken place on Monday; the following Friday 
there was an uprising of the Insurgents in the South and 
Wilfrid and Burt were detailed to take command of the 
Macabebees and join Williamson, who was commanding the 
cavalry down near Muntinlupa. It happened that MacIntyre, 
with a battery of mountain artillery, was also ordered to 
the same point, thus leaving the girls bereft of their best 
friends and most anxiously awaiting their return or news 
of them. It was not far away, a matter of eighteen or twenty 
miles, and they hoped and prayed the absence would not be 
long or fraught with danger. 

Angela had been so distressed and fearful on Wilfrid’s ac- 
count that she had come near confessing everything to him. 
She wanted to sob out all her love and anxiety on his breast, 
to feel his arms clasp her just once before he went out, per- 
haps never to return, and to give him the kiss that might 
prove to be the precious amulet of which he had once spoken. 
She never knew why she did not tell him that day, for 
Nan’s pleadings and the aching of her own heart were hard 
to resist, but something held her back. Perhaps, it was the 


238 


LIFE. 


wish to hear him say he loved her. She knew he did and 
also knew that the only reason he did not speak was because 
he was in honor bound to another woman. She respected 
him for this loyalty to his marriage vows and would not 
have had him act otherwise. Still, she loved him, and he 
loved her, and woman-like she wanted to hear him say so; 
wanted more tangible proof than her own intuitions, so fear- 
ful, so doubtful, is Love! 

The day they were to leave, she saw him coming and knew 
it was to say good-bye. She met him at the head of the 
steps, smiling a bright welcome. But when he told her the 
time for leaving had actually arrived, she suddenly seemed 
to grow weak and faint. She sat down on the step, quite 
still and white, and looked at him with questioning, troubled 
eyes. 

“You — you must go?” she asked, her voice quavering like 
a little child’s. 

“Where duty calls,” quoth he with a faint smile. 

To his complete surprise, she buried her face in her hands 
and burst into tears. A wonderful light, of happiness, came 
into the young soldier’s eyes. 

“I do not care now,” he whispered, madly exultant; “I 
can face death — anything, now that ! know you care.” 

“Oh, don’t, don’t,” she cried, “don’t speak of — oh, I can’t 
say it. But you must not, you must not be foolhardy. Be 
brave; I would not have you otherwise, but be careful, oh, 
do be careful for — for my — for your mother’s sake.” 

“Don’t cry, don’t, you — ^you make it so hard for me — not 
to be a coward,” he said, turning away his eyes for fear that 
he would catch her in his arms and never let her go, if he 
looked another moment at her grief -stricken little figure on 
the step above him. 

“You remember what I said about the girls who couldn’t 
go out to fight but could still help those who did?” he said, 
after a pause. 

Angela looked up. 

“Good bye,” she said, “and God be with you.” 


LIFE. 


239 


— is that all ?” asked he, taking the cold little hand and 
holding it tight. 

^^Yes,” she answered, weakly; “go, or I will be a coward, 
too.” 

But he lingered, his grey eyes very hungry as they mutely 
begged the blessing he dared not ask. 

Angela drew in her breath sharply as if it stabbed her. 
She would have given her soul to have thrown herself in his 
arms and kissed him a thousand blessings, but her true love 
was stronger than her passion. If he were going to fight — 
and die, his soul would be nearer God and whiter, in that 
other world, without this kiss, which he knew to be unlawful. 
“Go,” she said again — and he went. 

On his way to headquarters he met Lieutenant Burt. 

“Where are you going?” said Wilfrid. 

“I have just half an hour before we start. I am going up 
to the Governor's to tell the ladies good bye,” replied Burt. 

When he reached the palace, he found both girls weeping 
bitter tears in the big parlor, and not ashamed of them, 
either. 

“Oh, Mr. Burt, isn’t it awful!” said Nan, jumping up to 
meet him. 

“Why, it’s nothing new to us fellows. Miss Beaufort,” he 
answered, smiling, “we’ve had lots of such scrapping and 
don’t mind it; besides, we’ve been having a pretty easy time 
for the last month and deserve a little warming up.” 

“You don’t think there is so much danger, then?” said 
Angela, with a faint ray of hope. 

“Oh, well, there’s always danger more or less. Miss Ger- 
ard,” answered Burt, “but that isn’t for us to think about, 
you know.” 

“Well, I think this butchering business is terrible,” said 
Nan; “these wretched little islands are so many slaughter 
pens.” 

Burt laughed. 

“Oh, no. Miss Beaufort, you don’t think so. Why, only this 


240 


LIFE. 


week you were saying that Manila was the most delightful 
and interesting spot in the world.” 

^^Maybe it was then, you weren’t fighting then, you know,” 
argued Miss Nancy. 

^^Ah, Nan, Fm afraid you are no soldier,” put in Angela. 

^^Are you?” returned her friend, 
would like to be,” said Angela. 

^^And yet you were weeping your eyes out not a moment 
since,” teased Nan. 

^^That was because I had to stay behind,” said Angela. 
^^Now, will you be good?” and they all three laughed. But 
it was a poor attempt at merriment. Angela was too deeply 
distressed to be able to forget for any length of time that 
they were all on the border of a tragedy. 

Her face clouded over and the tears came again as she 
wished the little cavalryman ^^God speed and a safe return,” 
and the remainder of the day passed slowly and miserably 
for the girls after the departure of their friends. In the late 
afternoon, in company with the Governor and his wife, they 
rode around the Luneta, meeting acquaintances and exchang- 
ing pleasantries. That night they were booked for a ball at 
the Club, but Angela pleaded a headache and remained at 
home, leaving Nan to go and do the honors. But even her 
lively spirits could not shake off the foreboding of probable 
disaster, and she returned to her friend as soon as etiquette 
would permit. She felt very sorry for the anxious little wife 
for whom the hours of wretched suspense dragged by so 
slowly. 

Meanwhile, the troops were having a lively skirmish 
among the hills that lay to the South. 

Williamson, at the head of several hundred troops, was 
marching along Muntinglupa. His immediate attendants 
were a large company of Macabebee scouts upon whom a 
mob of Filipino insurgents began firing from a fortified hill 
just above them. The Macabebees, generally so fearless, lost 
their heads completely, and with one accord lay down in the 
ditch of the sunken road, flat on their stomachs, with their 


LIFE. 


241 


noses to the ground, where they were fully protected from 
the fire. Williamson shouted for them to rise, following this 
command with a quick succession of orders which they would 
not obey. Finally little Burt sprang forward. 

“Damn ^em, the devils,” he muttered, “I’ll fix them.” 

He went hurriedly about, carrying as many large stones as 
he could carry in his left arm. Then he walked along the 
embankment, firing them down on the heads of the terrified 
little scouts as hard as he could throw them. 

“You damned little beggars, damn your brown skins, get 
out of there and fight,” he shouted, walking back and forth 
along the line regardless of the bullets whizzing about his 
ears. Finally, rather than be cut to pieces with the stones, 
they came up and obeyed. Once on their feet, their wonted 
courage returned and they fought like so many demons dur- 
ing the rest of the encounter. MacIntyre, meantime, had 
been having his troubles. He was in command of a squad 
of mountain artillery. 

“Now, Captain, here is the chance of your life. Give it to 
them,” Williamson had ordered. 

The Captain had a great mule packed with the artillery 
gun, the wheels attached to either side of him. Just as he 
was on the point of firing into the insurgents, a bullet from 
the enemy passed through both ears of the patient beast. 
It came whizzing through the air, entered the tip of his 
right ear, slightly grazing his head, and passed out through 
the left. 

The mule, being suddenly fired upon, naturally started. 
He was a powerful beast and as he jumped four feet to one 
side he carried the gun and three men with him. The packer, 
who was a fat old fellow, turned a somersault in mid-air and 
fell in a heap in the mire, where mule and men sunk a 
couple of feet, while the troopers about them, in spite of the 
danger of the moment, fairly howled with laughter. 

With the passing of the mule went MacIntyre’s opportu- 
nity for proving himself a hero, and while he cursed and 
swore, Wilfrid, who had been sent ahead with a detachment, 


242 


LIFE. 


could be heard in the distance encouraging his men, while 
they answered with cheer after cheer, as they routed the 
enemy with slaughter. He was fighting like one possessed, 
and his men, taking fire from him, were bowling over the 
insurgents like pins in a bowling alley. 

Forty-eight hours afterwards he returned to the city for a 
short while, en route to one of the Northern provinces, where 
the insurgents were giving trouble, and where a cavalry 
division coininanded by him had been ordered to proceed, 
lie and Burt came into Manila together. They separated at 
their respective quarters, and later came face to face on the 
veranda of His Excellency’s mansion. 

Burt had promised to deliver some messages from MacIn- 
tyre to Nan, so he was borne off by that lady into the parlor 
where she could receive him undisturbed. He cast one 
glance, eloquent with regret, at Angela as he passed into the 
house. She smiled back gently. She had been very glad 
of his safe return and she wanted him to know it. When the 
two had disappeared she turned to Wilfrid and silently held 
out both hands. He caught them and put them up against 
his breast, his own over them, securing her fast. 

“I — I am so glad you have come back,” she said. There 
was nothing extraordinary in the words, but the break in 
the voice spoke volumes. 

^‘Thank you,” he answered, “the charm, the amulet, 
worked, you see.” 

“Was that it?” 

“Don’t you know it? I wish I might always carry it into 
battle with me,” said he, earnestly. 

“Do you really wish it?” looking straight at him. 

“Can you ask it? Oh, don’t, don’t tempt me,” he cried, 
hurt as though she had touched a wound. 

“How could I know, how can I know, that you wish it?” 
she persisted. 

She had drawn away her hands and half turned her back 
to him and he could only see her profile in the moonlight. 


LIFE. 


243 


He stepped closer to her and turned her around by the 
shoulders, forcing her to look at him, 

^‘Come close,” he said, ‘^and look into my eyes and you will 
see the image that fills my heart, night and day, reflected 
there.” 

She did as he bade her and her smile was rare, her eyes 
maddening, as he drank in their sweetness. 

^‘Now,” he said, unsteadily, “now, unless you would get 
angry with me, I guess you had better move away,” — he 
smiled a little, — “while there is yet time,” he warned. 

Angela did not move. 

“Go away, I say,” cried the young man, desperately, “you 
stay at your peril.” 

“I don^t want to go away,” confessed the golden eyes to 
the gray ones above them, “and I want to stay,” acknowl- 
edged a whispered voice, “even — even at my peril.” 
******** ** 

“Of what are you thinking, my darling?” questioned Wil- 
frid, after an hour of bliss upon which we dare not intrude. 
She smiled softly. 

“I was feeling so sorry for the rest of the world,” she said, 
“and wishing that everyone was half as happy as I am. 
Only I couldn’t spare one- thousandth part of my own joy — 
at least, not to-night.” 

“My beautiful,” he answered, catching her to him, “you 
are indeed so happy? Ah, love, I am not worthy. God 
knows I am not, and yet, I could not give you up now. Why 
do you love me so, sweetheart?” 

“I don’t know,” she answered, surprised at the question. 
“There are so many reasons why a girl would love a man. 
I haven’t thought out a special one for loving you. I think 
perhaps it’s just because — well — just because I love you, 
which is perhaps the best reason after all, and so fills my 
heart that there is no room for question, for doubt, for aught 
but love.” 

“Will it — will it endure even to the end?” asked Wilfrid, 
thinking of the time when she must know all and make a 


244 


LIFE. 


choice, for Angela had only told him of her love and nothing 
of her identity. 

‘‘I have sworn,” she said, laying her hand upon her heart, 
and speaking with a significance he could not guess, “till 
death do us part.” 

Wilfrid blanched whiter than the moonlight. The tone, 
the words, again that fleeting impression of something fa- 
miliar he could not remember, as he recalled the last time 
he had heard them spoken. 

He glanced quickly at Angela, scanning every feature as 
a wild idea floated through his brain. “Yes, it was the eyes, 
the voice, but how? And the name? That was absolutely 
unknown to him. “Gerard?” Aimee — Aimee? Where had 
he heard it? Ah, the will; Angela Aimee Churchill; yes, 
that was it. But the “Gerard?” No one could masquerade 
in private life at the Governor’s palace. And then this resi- 
dence in France; she had gone to school there! My God, 
could this by any chance be she? Everything seemed to 
verify his suspicions. 

“Angela,” he cried, daringly. 

It was the girl’s turn to change color. She gave a fright- 
ened start, for a moment she lost her self-possession, then 
she was herself again. 

“How you startled me, crying out so suddenly,” she said, 
laughing herself. “I believe just as you say, that love does 
make cowards of us all.” 

“Where did you go to school in France?” said Wilfrid, 
not heeding her. 

“Why, what a question! What made you think of that 
now?” she said. “It was in the extreme southern part; in 
an old, old convent, not very much patronized, being over- 
shadowed by the more progressive schools in the northern 
and middle sections nearer to Paris.” She hated to lie, but 
no alternative was left her. It was her only chance to pre- 
serve her incognito. 

“When were you last in America?” he asked next, still un- 
convinced. 


LIFE. 


245 


She looked at him coldly. 

“When I was a child/’ she answered. 

“You are not much more now,” said Wilfrid, smiling. 
“How old are you, dearest ?” 

“Twenty next month,” she answered, calmly, ignoring the 
fact that her baptismal certificate would make her not yet 
eighteen. 

“Ah — I had no idea — I would have guessed you much 
younger,” he said, boldly. 

She did not deign to reply; and Wilfrid, still unconvinced, 
was mentally debating whether it would be safe to subject 
her to a series of cross-questions without betraying his own 
secret. Just at this juncture. Nan and Burt were heard 
coming towards them. 

“How silver sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,” chir- 
ruped the former wickedly, as she came out on the veranda. 
“Come here, Mr. McDonald, I want to talk to you.” 

Nan had two good reasons unto herself for thus claiming 
Wilfrid’s attention. The first was, she fully believed in the 
efficiency of the green-eyed monster in his case, and secondly, 
she felt sorry for Burt, who had confided to her his love for 
Angela and that he meant to try his fate that evening. Nan 
sincerely liked the little fellow and knowing the hopelessness 
of his attachment, thought it best for him, and safer for 
Angela, to have a full and clear understanding. Besides, 
Miss Nancy was exceedingly anxious and curious to find 
out what had passed between Wilfrid and her friend, that 
long time out in the pale moonlight, with the air about them 
full of sweet, subtle sounds and odors, intoxicating, mad- 
dening as love itself to lovers. Wilfrid rose reluctantly, but 
gallantly, and followed her to a far end of the veranda, leav- 
ing Burt and Angela alone. 

“I was so truly glad to have you come back safely. Lieu- 
tenant,” said the girl warmly, as they seated themselves on 
the steps. 

“That was good of you — too good of you. Miss Gerard,” 
he answered. “I could not have guessed or hoped that you 


246 


LIFE. 


cared, except for the fact that your heart is so kind and 
tender to all things, and you said I might be your friend, 
you remember?’^ 

^^Yes, and I meant it. Lieutenant, in the best sense of the 
word,” returned Angela. “I think a really, true friend is 
one of the most priceless possessions accorded our lives, don’t 
you ?” 

“Am I — does my poor regard — my friendship mean that 
much to you. Miss Aimee?” asked the little cavalryman, un- 
steadily. 

“Indeed, it does, Mr. Burt, and the remembrance of it will 
be one of the greatest treasures I shall carry away from the 
island,” she answered, smilingly, “and furthermore, I shall 
always be hoping to meet you again in my wanderings.” 

You — you wouldn’t be willing to sign a contract to that 
effect, would you. Miss Aimee?” said Burt bravely, bracing 
himself for the answer, whatever it might be. 

Angela raised her startled eyes to his. 

“Oh, Lieutenant,” she gasped, “I — I had never — I mean — 
Oh, I am so sorry — I don’t understand.” 

“You don’t understand me. Miss Aimee? Can’t you, and 
haven’t you seen all along that I loved you, and worshipping 
held you so high above me as some holy thing, that I dared 
not, dared not — speak ? I wanted to the last night before I 
went away, but all my courage left me. I grew sick with the 
fear of losing you altogether. When you said ‘good-bye’ I 
tried again; but just to look into your eyes makes me as 
weak as a child. They are sweet and brave at the same time ; 
can you understand? They make a man aspire to great and 
good things and yet make him feel his unworthiness to covet 
them.” 

“Ah, Lieutenant, I wish — I wish it were not so ; I like you 
so much — it breaks my heart to hurt you. But it is impos- 
sible, quite impossible,” cried Angela, with tears of compas- 
sion. 

The little cavalryman pulled himself bravely together. 

“Never mind me, Miss Aimee,” he said. “I — I under- 


LIFE. 


247 


stand. I am going away to-morrow, but if you ever need ray 
friendship — I will trust you to send for me. I would like to 
do something — to thank you for the happy hours you have 
given me, the memory of which will last all through my life 
and make it sweeter and my efforts better for having known 
the host, the truest woman God ever made to bless and en- 
noble the lives of men.” 

“If all men were like you. Lieutenant Burt,” cried Angela, 
“there would be no breaking of hearts and wrecking of God’s 
women in the world. I want you always to remember that 
to me you have ever seemed more than any other the ‘noblesse 
oblige’ of a gentle heritage.” * 

“God bless you for that,” said the little officer, brokenly. 
“Good night, my smile of God, and — good-bye.” 

“Oh, no, not good-hye; don’t say good-bye,” pleaded An- 
gela. “Do not say good-bye to-night.” 

“As you like,” he replied, “it does not matter — much.” 

The pain in his voice found an echo in her heart. Her 
own love had somehow made her very tender. With the 
sweetest, purest impulse a woman ever had, she stooped from 
the step above and kissed the hrave little soldier. “Good 
night — and God hless you,” she said. 

The act was recorded in Heaven and was one which she 
loved to remember gratefully through the years that fol- 
lowed. 

****** 

Two weeks later came the news of Burt’s death. There 
had been a night attack upon the U. S. cavalry at Talavera, 
in one of the Northern provinces, by an organized force of 
the enemy known as Insurgent Eegulars, who were as thor- 
oughly equipped, uniformed and disciplined as our own men. 
They had fired on the American troops from three directions, 
the center of the column and both flanks being simultane- 
ously attacked with great enthusiasm and bugles sounding 
the charge. They had easily been repulsed, however, by the 
destructive fire and determined stand of the Americans. 

The attack had been made in the early morning, shortly 


248 


LIFE. 


before daybreak, but bad hardly been a surprise, as William- 
son, who was commanding the detachment, had been warned 
that the insurgents were advancing from Tarlac for that 
purpose. 

The position of the advancing forces had been located by 
him the day before, in anticipation of such a movement on 
the part of the enemy. The brunt of the attack had fallen 
upon the center, which had been occupied by Troop B, com- 
manded by Lieutenant Burt. His line held prone positions 
behind a low hedge, but the little officer himself, with superb 
courage and coolness, stood upright directing and encourag- 
ing his men, fi conspicuous mark in the semi-darkness, 
dressed as he was in white hat and shirt. For they had been 
aroused suddenly by the firing on the outposts. 

Once the Sergeant — (he who had recounted his deeds of 
valor to Angela) — sprang to his side and snatched the white 
hat from his head. 

^‘What are you doing, Naylor?’’ asked the little officer. 

“Your hat,” answered the man breathlessly, “its a foolish 
risk — your pardon. Lieutenant — take mine — we can’t afford 
to lose you.” 

It was a little thing, but just for a moment it made preci- 
ous the life the young officer had lately come to hold of such 
light value. It was the world’s kindly farewell, for even as 
he smiled with the thought, as men will think and do strange 
things in the very midst of battle, a bullet aimed straight 
at his heart sent the brave little soldier on his last march, to 
answer his last roll-call to the God of battles! 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE HONEYMOON AND THE AWAKENING. 

“How do I love thee ! Let me count the ways ; — 

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 
My soul can reach.” 

— Elizabeth Brovming. 

Wilfrid’s company was detailed to escort the body of the 
dead Lieutenant of the 4th to Manila. The greatest love 
and respect of both men and officers had been the little cav- 
alryman’s and now all honor was shown his remains as they 
were borne to the city. 

Angela and Nan, greatly distressed, their arms laden with 
flowers, in company with the Governor, followed the cortege 
to Poco cemetery where his body would lie in the receiving 
vault until the sailing of the next transport. It was their 
daily Mecca until the remains were placed on board the 
Lawton the following week. With tearful eyes, they watched 
the great vessel steam out of the harbor, carrying away for- 
ever from their sight, the little cavalryman whom they had so 
loved and honored. Wilfrid had more than one twinge of 
remorse when he recalled his treatment of the little officer 
so lately one in their happy midst, in those last days. For 
this reason he had been very patient with Angela in her deep 
grief for his dead rival and admirably concealed his jealousy. 

He was generous enough to realize that this unconcealed 
grief was no disloyalty to him, and that in his happiness he 
could afford this tender tribute to one whom he had been 
forced to respect. 

The time was drawing near for the departure of Nan and 
Angela from the Island. Mr. Beaufort, who, soon after 
their arrival, had betaken himself ^ffiack to civilization,” as 


250 


LIFE. 


he expressed it — the climate of the tropical islands holding 
no charms for his portly person, was impatient for the re- 
turn of his daughter and her companion to the States. One 
bright morning, about a week after the departure of BurFs 
body on the transport, Angela and Nan were having break- 
fast in their room. 

Nan was reading aloud a letter frorn her father which had 
been sent up on the tray. 

‘^You see, Angie,’’ she said, ^‘I’ll have to do it. I’ll have to 
go next week. Will you go with me?” 

Angela smiled. 

^‘No, Nancy, I think I’ll stop masquerading and ’fess up,” 
she answered. 

^‘You mean — ?” 

“Yes, that I will tell Wilfrid all — to-day.” 

“To-day! Oh, Angie,” cried Nan, clapping her hands with 
delightful anticipation of exciting events. 

“Yes, this morning,” replied Angela, softly. “We are go- 
ing for a ride. I will take him to La Loma; that was where 
I first found I loved him, and I will tell him there.” 

“Oh, Angie, if I could only be somewhere around. Will 
you promise to remember every single thing he says and 
does and tell me the minute you get home?” pleaded Nan. 

Angela leaned across the little table and kissed her friend. 

“You’re the onliest girl in the world, Nancy,” she said, 
affectionately. 

“I wish he could see you now,” said Nan, mischievously. 

“Oh, Nan, how perfectly horrid of you,” cried Angela, 
tucking her bare feet up on the round of the chair and twist- 
ing all the pretty, loose curls into a knot, as though there 
were immediate danger of his entrance. 

“Oh, well, you needn’t turn all sorts of colors. You have 
been married long enough to get over such foolishness,” 
went on Nan, wickedly. 

“Shut up !” screamed Angela, a crimson flush dyeing neck 
and face. 


LIFE. 


261 


Nan leaned back in her chair and laughed till the tears 
came. 

‘‘Oh, dear, oh, dear,” she chuckled, “this is a great, great 
deal better than a play. Oh, Angie, dear, don’t try to look 
dignified. You can’t with those curls and that gown and 
your pink toes, no matter how you puff and swell and sput- 
ter and spit and look blazes at me. Oh, dear, dear, it is too 
^ood ; I can’t wait for ‘the party,’ ” and she slid on the floor 
where she sat rocking to and fro while peal after peal of 
laughter rang through the room and Angela was obliged to 
surrender her position of dignified rebuke and join in the 
merriment. 

“What’s the matter with you two Comanches?” called the 
Governor, rapping sharply on the door. “Somebody had 
better get dressed; I see a troop of cavalry and a battery of 
artillery coming up the walk. 

Nan ran to the window. 

“MacIntyre!” she exclaimed in delighted surprise, then 
clapped her hands over her mouth and turned, flushing 
guiltily, to Angela. 

“Ha ha,” cried that young lady, triumphantly, who is 
blushing now?” turning the laugh on the saucy Nan. 

“Better hurry!” called the Governor, “I hear them attack- 
ing the outposts.” And the two girls scuttled to do his bid- 
ding. In twenty minutes Nan was clothed in her best white 
muslin, — and a fairly balanced mind, — and was welcoming 
the long absent McIntyre, who had stolen her heart and car- 
ried it away with him to the mountain fastnesses whither 
he had been, unconfessed to herself, unknown to him. 

For some reason Angela had an awful time getting herself 
arrayed. She dropped the brush half a dozen times, lost all 
of her pins, buttoned all the buttons in the holes where they 
didn’t belong, and couldn’t find her belt. Wlien finally she 
was dressed and fully equipped for the momentous ride, she 
went below, with her heart beating like a trip-hammer, as 
she nervously tapped the palm of her left hand with the crop 
she carried in the right. She had seen Nancy and MacIntyre 


252 


LIFE. 


wandering away down the lawn and she knew that Wilfrid 
was alone in the drawing room. He was waiting, impa- 
tiently walking up and down the length of the room. As she 
came in he went towards her with outstretched arms but she, 
— laughing a little, motioned him away. ^^No,” she said, 
“you shall not kiss me to-day, until I have told you some- 
thing ; then, if you still wish to, you may ; if not, why, 1” 

Wilfrid grew anxious ; he was always fearful of something 
coming between him and his love. 

She laughed again, at him, this time. 

“I want to ride to La Loma church this morning. Do you 
remember the first time we were there together?” 

“Have I ever forgotten one moment spent with you?” he 
asked, reproachfully. 

“Well,” she said, “I shall tell you a great secret right 
there. IVe decided to make myself very happy and I thought 
I’d tell you about it, the very first one !” 

“What is this that is going to make you so happy?” asked 
the young man, growing sick with fear. “You — you aren’t 
going to tell me about some lucky dog who has won me out 
in the race, are you?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Are you going to marry — some other fellow?” 

“Marry? Maybe. But come, you will have me spoiling 
my pretty little plan of campaign by giving you previous in- 
formation of all the positions.” 

They reached the old church about mid-day and dis- 
mounted, tying their horses to a nearby tree. 

“Now,” said Angela, mounting to her former position on 
the cathedral porch, which was shaded by a thickly foliaged 
tree. 

Wilfrid had made the ride silently, half in wretched mis- 
giving, half in happy anticipation, for he still, in a measure, 
clung to his belief, or rather hope, in Angela’s identity. 

“Now,” said the girl, again, “I am going to tell you a 
story. Do you like to listen to story-telling?” 


LIFE. 


253 


^‘Better than anything else, when you are the teller,” an- 
swered Wilfrid. 

^‘Well, once upon a time, a long time ago, — (that^s the way 
they always begin, isn’t it?”) 
believe so. Go on.” 

“Well, in that long time ago, there was a little girl who 
lived a very happy life in a country called India. Her papa 
was an English officer stationed at Simla, in command of the 

post there. Her mother was a French lady No! keep 

quiet until I’ve finished. Well, as I was saying, her mother 
was a French lady, very beautiful, and very much admired. 
The mother, when a girl, had been in love with a great sol- 
dier who fought in one of the armies of France, but her 
father, who was a nobleman, did not approve of her lovor 
because he was an American, ‘a bourgeois American,’ he 
called him, and he forced her to marry the English soldier 
because, although a younger son, he was heir to a great 
house and was of noble blood and might some day come into 
the title. But the older brothers were not obliging enough 
to die; instead the younger brother took the bungalow fever 
and died, as afterwards his wife did, and the little daugh- 
ter, who had also had the fever, was sent to America, at her 
mother’s request, to be the ward, and eventually became the 
heiress, of the great American soldier. Soon after her ar- 
rival in America her guardian died, leaving a strange will. 
He left his entire estate to be divided between a favorite 
nephew and his little ward, — on condition that they marry. 
When the will was read the young man, the nephew, who had 
just graduated from a military school and before whom life 
was opening with brightest and happiest prospects, when 
he heard the condition, — swore terribly, — ^yes, he did, too. 
Don’t interrupt, — and hated like everything to comply with 
his uncle’s wish. I don’t blame him very much, for, although 
the little girl had been pretty and bright in Simla, the fever 
had robbed her of every attraction, from her curls and flesh, 
to her quickness of mind. But she knew more than the 
young man gave her credit for, for all she was such ^a scare- 


254 


LIFE. 


crow/ and it rankled, rankled, rankled in her heart ever 
after. She went abroad to the convent where her mother 
had been educated and met a friend. The friend took an 
interest in her strange history, but the neglected little burden 
of a wife hated and despised the man to whom she was bound 
under such humiliating circumstances, and she finally de- 
cided to appeal to his generosity and ask him to grant her a 
divorce in return for all the property. She didn’t care for 
the money; she had rather go and work in the flower fac- 
tories outside of Paris, at a few francs a week, than live 
with the man who despised and humiliated her. But her 
friend thought differently. The girl was little less of ‘a 
scarecrow’ since her curls had grown and some of her flesh 
had returned, and her friend, who was a romantic little per- 
son, concocted a plan by which the husband and wife were 
to meet. So they finished their education and went to Manila 
where the young husband was stationed with the American 
troops. They met, — the two, — one night at a reception; the 
girl knew him, of course, but he never knew her. She had 
changed and she used her mother’s name, which he had 
never heard; they danced once together that night, a waltz, 
the last one. Once or twice she knew he half-way guessed 
at her identity, but when he questioned, she lied, bravely and 
effectively. At last she grew tired of masquerading and her 
friend, receiving a message to return to the States, the girl, — 
she — couldn’t bear to think of leaving — ^him, for she believed 
he loved her. He said so. So she determined to tell him all 
and ask him — whether she might stay — or not.” 

^^My darling, my love, my wife!” cried the young soldier, 
catching her to him as if he would never let her go. 

^‘Might you stay?” He laughed at the foolish question. 

“You shall never, never leave me again, not even for a 
day. Ah, my beautiful, beautiful darling!” 

“Come,” said Angela, after a while, “we must make a 
glorious day of it, to-day ; one to be remembered.” 

“Yes,” said Wilfrid, happily, “where shall we go on our — 
honeymoon ?” 


LIFE. 


255 


“We will ride on to San Miguel; I love it there, and we 
will make the natives give us dinner out under the trees, and 
you can tell me all about how much and how long you have 
loved me and we will be happy, happy, happy ! Happier than 
ever before,” said Angela, her eyes shining like topazes, with 
unutterable love and joy. 

They mounted their horses and proceeded on their “wed- 
ding journey,” as Angela laughingly called it. 

All along the Pasig river there are pretty little towns, 
completely embowered in trees and vines. San Miguel is one 
of the most romantic of these. The river itself, toward Bay 
Lake, runs between wooded, beautiful banks, on which the 
bamboo tree is a graceful feature. As they pursued their 
h9,ppy way, the young couple so strangely united, were ap- 
parently the only travellers on the road that day. Only 
twice they met other parties. Once, some tired scouts, rest- 
ing ’neath the shade of the Luzon thickets, and further on 
the northern Luzon road several troops of soldiers, with 
their guns stacked, enjoying a well-earned rest. 

Arriving at San Miguel, they found their way to a native 
Nepa hut, of bamboo, with thatched roof, where weeks ago, 
in company with Nan and little Burt, and the Governor's sis- 
ter as chaperone, they had bribed the inmates to give them 
an afternoon meal. The women and children greeted them 
with a cheery “Buenos dios,” and Wilfrid scattered diniera 
about, for which the native babies scrambled, gurgling and 
squealing with delight, while the women lost no time pre- 
paring a meal for these chance visitors, scenting a paso in 
the near future. Soon Angela and Wilfrid were sitting 
down to a delightful native meal of rice and chicken. On 
the table had been placed a great wooden bowl of green 
oranges, and they were supplied with wooden sticks and 
spoons with which to eat. 

“Oh, isn’t it just lovely, all of it! I think I never knew 
people could be so happy !” said Angela. 

“Nor I,” assented her husband. “You see, we are more for- 


256 


LIFE. 


tunate than most people; we were married first, and then fell 
in love afterwards/' 

Angela laughed from sheer happiness. 

“I had no idea it was such fun knowing one's own hus- 
band," she said. 

Wilfrid laughed back. 

^^What a dear, little, original thing you are," he exclaimed, 
as he kissed her; then he went on with his plans. ^‘Yes, we'll 
make life what many people have tried to do, but failed. 
We will be always happy." 

“What will we do?" asked Angela. “Go all around the 
world to beautiful places, according to our own ideas, in- 
stead of to big cities in the usual conventional manner?" 

“Yes," answered Wilfrid, “we will make love all over 
again in the land of the cherry blossoms and chrysanthe- 
mums; we will see the feast of the lanterns and I will kiss 
your beautiful face in their light. Then we will go down 
the Nile and rest in the shadows of the Pyramids; we will 
catch the white beams of the moonlight on the Coliseum and 
play the lady and the troubador in old Madrid; we will " 

“Yes, and we will go to France, my own dear France, to 
the south, with its crape-myrtles and its orange blooms, its 
vineyards, and its sparkling, golden wines. We will have a 
chateau, all romance and gray stones, with climbing ivy and 
red roses. We will be one with the peasants in their wooden 
sabots and white caps, and we will dance at their harvest 
festival; and when at even-tide, the Angelus calls the world 
to prayer, we’ll bow our heads in silent, happy gratitude. 
And after France, — India — we must not forget India — with 
its strange gods, its bungalows, its weird jungles, and its 
silent-footed beasts of prey and its roads where one can ride, 
ride for hours, not as on Kotten Kow, or on the Camp Ely- 
see, or the Bois, or even in your own park in the States, but 
as they ride there and nowhere else in the world. Oh, we 
will be so happy!" 

“My dear little enthusiast, life with you will be as spark- 


LIFE. 


257 


ling’, as sweet, as maddening as the golden wine of your own 
sunny France,” said Wilfrid, catching her to him. 

“How, where, — when, I mean, had we best announce our 
marriage?” he asked her all aglow with happy anticipation 
as they rode homeward. 

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Angela, looking a lit- 
tle frightened and blushing rosy-red. 

“We’ll get the Governor to do it. Nan can weedle him into 
it. We’ll do it at the Club to-night.” 

“So soon?” she demurred. 

“Don’t you think we’ve wasted enough precious time?” 
asked he, smiling. 

“I haven’t a trousseau — or — or anything ” began An- 

gela, lamely. 

Wilfrid laughed. 

“Ah, no,” he said, “you don’t get around it like that.” He 
caught one of the pretty, soft curls, gleaming golden brown 
in the sunset glow, and kissed it. 

“What a dear, little baby curl it is,” he said, tenderly. 
“The sunshine is always playing hide and seek among 
them.” 

Angela shook her head merrily till every ringlet danced. 

“You mustn’t tell me so many nice things,” she said. 
“You will quite spoil me and then there will be no managing 
me. I am very wayward, at times.” 

“I shall not be afraid while you are so honest,” laughed 
her husband. 

They reached home at dusk and Angela flew upstairs to 
Nan after Wilfrid had ridden away to the barracks. He was 
to call for her for the Club dance that night, but he be- 
grudged even the few hours separation. 

“This is our last good-bye,” he said, jealously, holding her 
close to him as he lifted her bodily from the saddle. “To- 

9 


258 


LIFE. 


morrow and ever after there will be no separation, you un- 
derstand, my darling?” 

The girTs eyes drooped. 

“I will be so glad,” she confessed, softly, ^‘my husband!” 

“My wife!” 

Within the hour Miss Nancy and all the rest of the Gov- 
ernor’s household had heard the news. 

His Excellency needed but little persuasion to agree to 
herald the happy event. Never was Nan in such a state of 
excitement. She cried a little, laughed a great deal and hov- 
ered about her little friend like a hen over a single chicken. 

“You must wear all white to-night, the dress you wore 
the first time and have never used since. Miss Sentimental,” 
she said, “and you need some white flowers; Oh, you must 
have white flowers in your hair and a bouquet in your hand, 
like a regular newly made bride.” 

As she spoke a knock came at the door and the Governor 
himself appeared in the doorway, bearing a great shower 
bouquet of white blossoms. 

“For the bride,” he said; “there’s a card attached, but I 
guess the lady doesn’t need it to tell her the name of the 
donor.” 

Angela stretched out her bare arms for the flowers and 
the Governor laid the precious burden in them, bestowing a 
fatherly kiss on the blushing cheek, as he did so. 

Angela pressed the roses and lilies to her heart and buried 
her happy face in their fragrant midst, kissing them softly. 
When she raised her head she was more beautiful than she 
had been in all her life before, in spite of two happy 
tears which shone like stars in her golden eyes. She read 
the tender message on the card and pressed it to her lips, 
then slipped it into the bosom of her low evening dress. Sud- 
denly she walked towards the door of an adjoining bedroom. 

“Where are you going?” asked Nan, surprised. 

Angela turned round with smiling eyes. 


LIFE. 


259 


“I — I am so happy,” she said, “that I want to — pray — a 
little.” 

When Wilfrid arrived some time afterwards he was 
scarcely allowed to receive the congratulations of the family, 
so anxious was the Governor to have a chat with him in his 
cozy library. There they chatted until His Excellency was 
notified that the carriage was ready and Madame was wait- 
ing. He was obliged to be early at the scene of festivities, 
as he was expected to receive the guests. 

Both he and his wife had agreed it was useless to defer an- 
nouncing the romantic marriage of Wilfrid and Angela, and 
it was understood that he would make it public that evening 
in his most felicitous manner. 

After he had gone, Wilfrid moved restlessly about the 
library, stopping at the table, where he opened and shut a 
number of books aimlessly, turned over the sheets of the lat- 
est newspapers from the States, seeing nothing in anything 
but the vision of the girl he loved. As he took out his watch 
for the tenth time in as many minutes, the charm became de- 
tached and fell to the floor. He stooped to pick it up ; as he 
did so he noticed a page of one of the newspapers which had 
blown off the table and lay upon the floor. As he recovered 
the locket, he rose to his feet, the paper in his hand. He was 
just about to lay it on the table when a large wood-cut above 
a name in enormous black type arrested his attention. He 
glanced a second time at the great, black-lettered sheet and 
his hand went involuntarily to his heart. He blanched white 
as the spotless shirt front that he wore, and all in a moment 
he seemed old and haggard, his smiling lips were gray and a 
froth had settled in little bubbles upon them. 

The fair girl in all her bridal white and flowers, standing 
in the doorway, blushing, smiling and infinitely sweet, wait- 
ing for him to turn and see her, saw him first, and noticed 
the change in his face reflected in the great panel mirror 
opposite. 

In an instant she was at his side. She caught the paper 


260 


LIFE. 


from his hand and scanned it wildly; then she seemed to 
grow as white, — and as old — as he. 

^^You? You, Wilfrid, are the guilty one?” she gasped. 

His lips trembled, but her eyes forbade the lie he sought 
to utter. 

“God help me; it was I!” he said, as with bowed head he 
turned away. 

Over land and sea, removed thousands of miles from his 
forgotten victim, his sin had found him out in the hour 
which should have brought him unending happiness. 


CHAPTEK XXVI. 


A NIGHT OF HORROR. 

“Now walking there was one more fair, 

A slight girl, lily-pale ; 

And she had unseen company 
To make the spirit quail. 

’Twixt Want and Scoim she walked forlorn, 

And nothing could avail. 

“No mercy now can clear her brow 
For this world’s peace to pray 
For as love’s wild prayer dissolved In air 
Her woman’s heart gave say ! 

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven. 

By man is cursed alway !’’ 

—N. P. Willis. 

When Mary left Julian’s home, she had no thought of 
where she was going, of what she was about to do, or of what 
would become of her. She knew that she had sinned before 
God and in the sight of heaven, and she felt that inevitable 
punishment must surely follow. 

For the first few hours she w^alked heedlessly, blindly and 
without object, caring nothing where her footsteps might 
lead her. She sought principally the side streets where she 
would meet the fewest pedestrians, she imagining that every- 
one could read her story in her face. 

As the darkness was beginning to gather she walked out 
on one of the piers of the East river ; there was no one 
around, the workmen had gone to their homes; the place 
seemed deserted and she sat down and thought. 

What was Julian doing ? Had he returned to his home and 
found her letter? Did he feel pity for her? Had he cursed 
her? Would he search for her? 


262 


LIFE. 


She turned around involuntarily, as if expecting^ to see 
him coming toward her, but there was no one there. 

“No, he would not look for me,” she said aloud, “it is not 
natural that he should. I am a sinful wretch; I have dis- 
graced him, dishonored his home and am unworthy of even 
his contempt. Dear Julian! He protected and loved me! 
He tried to guide my steps aright and I .” 

The sound of the lapping of the water against the side of 
the pier attracted her attention, the river looked cold, dark 
and terrible, and yet might it not prove a haven of rest from 
all her troubles ? The water was so near ; one plunge and all 
would be over ! 

Then followed the dread of death, the fear of eternal pun- 
ishment in the world to come. The longer she gazed into the 
river, the more she seemed to be attracted towards it, but an 
indescribable something held her back, and shrinking with 
apprehension she arose and retreated from the dark river to 
the centre of the pier. 

A coarse brute seized her by the hand and tried to draw 
her towards him. 

“Hello! my pretty one, you look kind of lonely; seems to 
me you are in need of company,” he said, in a rough voice, 
his leering eyes making Mary doubly afraid of his presence. 

“I wish to be left alone,” replied the girl, struggling vainly 
to release herself from his grasp. 

“No nonsense. Miss,” returned the man; “if you were not 
looking for company you would not be out here alone at this 
hour; Oh, I know your sort and I ain’t half as bad as you 
think. Come, give me a kiss.” 

He bent over her and his hot breath seemed to burn her 
cheeks. She placed both of her hands across his mouth and 
tried to push him away from her, but he flung his arms 
around her waist and held her tightly. 

“Don’t come the high and mighty business over me,” he 
cried. “I like you, I have the money to buy you and I intend 
to have you, too.” 

Again his lips were pressed closely to her face and Mary 


LIFE. 


263 


drew herself back as far as possible and doubling both of her 
fists struck him with all of the force she could command 
across his eyes. 

He was almost blinded, and staggering with surprise he 
released her and she, taking advantage of this chance to es- 
cape, ran quickly to the street. 

The man started to follow, but seeing a policeman on the 
corner, in whose direction Mary was hastening, he slunk 
slowly away in an opposite direction and was soon lost in the 
darkness. 

“Well, whaFs the matter with you?” asked the policeman, 
as Mary approached him, “ you are kicking up a mighty lot 
of fuss.” 

“Oh, sir, protect me from that man,” she begged, shudder- 
ing and afraid to look behind her. 

“What man?” asked the officer. 

“The man on the pier,” she replied, but looking in that 
direction she could see none. “He was there,” she continued, 
“he insulted me and I struck him and ran.” 

“Been drinking, haven’t you?” questioned the policeman. 

“No, sir,— I—” 

Mary hung her head in shame. She was unused to insult 
and now that it came so cruelly upon her, she felt that she 
had even lost the right to resent it. 

“Where do you live?” he asked, gruffly. 

“No where,” she answered, vaguely. 

“Have you no relatives?” 

“No, sir; my mother is in England and my father is dead.” 

“Are you friendless ?” 

“Entirely, sir !” 

She thought of Julian and Aunt Betsy, of the poor people 
of the mission, who had called her their angel; she was un- 
worthy of their friendship now, her heart bled, but the tears 
came not to her eyes, for her soul was too full of pent-up 
misery. 

“Have you no money?” questioned the officer, this time 
more gently. 


264 


LIFE. 


“A little, sir,’’ she said, “enough to keep me for a few days 
at least.” 

“Then I should advise you to get away from these slums 
and to seek a respectable hotel or lodging house up town,” he 
replied, with a tone of compassion in his voice. “Why, child, 
they would murder you for the sake of the little you possess 
in any of the vile dens of this neighborhood. Good girls 
have no business here.” 

She thanl^ed him, bade him good night and fled on. It was 
growing cold, and as she turned into the Bowery, with its 
thousands of brilliantly lighted cheap stores, small snow- 
flakes began to fall. 

She drew her shawl more closely around her and upon this 
overcrowded thoroughfare and amongst this dense mixed 
mass of humanity she felt far safer from recognition than 
she had previously in the less frequented streets. 

She passed by the variety theatres and concert halls, many 
of the doors of which were left partly open so as to attract 
the attention of the pedestrians and tempt them to enter. 
She could see the painted women in tights and hear their 
cracked voices and coarse songs. It was a leaf in the book 
of life that was new to her; it made her shudder and feel 
heart-sick and she quickened her steps, trusting that she 
might soon leave such scenes of horror behind her. Men 
jostled against her and made rude and indecent remarks, 
but she turned not to the right or to the left and hastened 
onward to the north. 

Near the Cooper Institute she saw Julian coming towards 
her; she turned and fled into one of the side streets and 
stood in a doorway crouching and trembling until he had 
passed. She only saw his face for an instant, but she saw 
that it was very pale, and she knew that he had been sorrow- 
ing for her. On the moment she felt like following after 
him, casting herself upon her knees at his feet and begging 
his forgiveness; she knew that out of the goodness of his 
heart he could not refuse her, but she realized her own un- 
worthiness and could not. 


LIFE. 


265 


She returned to the corner of the street and watched him 
until he had disappeared from her sight. 

“My best and only friend!’^ she said, and her heart was 
breaking as she spoke the words. “How bitterly I have 
wronged him ! Oh, God ! It is just that I should suffer for 
my sinP • 

Her cry was like the moaning of a lost soul and again 
quickening her steps she moved on up Fourth avenue towards 
Union Square. 

The snow was melting as it fell, the sidewalks were cov- 
ered with slush which soaked through her shoes, making her 
feet wet, cold and painful; hunger and fatigue also over- 
came her and she began to look around to find some place in 
which she could procure shelter for the night. 

A new and unlooked for difficulty arose. 

No hotel would receive her. 

She called at one house after another requesting accommo- 
dation of a room for the night, but everywhere she went she 
received the same reply from the clerks. 

“It is against orders to give rooms to women unless accom- 
panied by a male escort.” 

What was she to do? Wliich way should she turn? 

A well dressed man, who, judging from his clothes, had 
every appearance of a gentleman, accosted her. 

“Good evening!” he said, pleasantly. 

“Good evening!” she replied, innocently. 

“Where are you going?” he asked. 

“I do not know,” she answered. 

“Then come with me and we will pass the night together,” 
he said, at the same time attempting to take her arm. 

His object flashed across her mind in an instant and she 
ran from him across the wide street and entered the park at 
Madison Square. 

Weary, tired and affrighted she sat down on one of the 
park benches to rest. A policeman came past and ordered 
her roughly to “move on,” 


266 


LIFE. 


^‘This is no place for women of the streets,’’ he said; ‘^now 
keep moving, and if I find you here again I’ll run you in.” 

Again she walked wearily onward, and as the snow beat 
pitilessly about her and her damp clothes clung to her, she 
shuddered and longed for her cozy white bed in her snug 
little room at the parsonage. How happy her life had been 
there, — until he came, the man whose honeyed words Had 
drawn her aside from the path of duty; he had deceived her, 
he had lied to her, and left her to bear the burden of her 
shame alone. Where was he now? On the seas, bound for 
the Philippines, — doubtless laughing and happy, heedless of 
the misery he had wrought and caring nothing for the poor 
girl, who, on account of his sin, had become an outcast, 
friendless, homeless and alone. 

When near 28th street she entered two more hotels; her 
teeth were chattering and she begged for shelter for the night, 
offering in return all of the money she possessed, but again 
she was told that no room could be obtained. Strong men, 
well able to withstand the terrors of the cold and blustering 
night, walked to the desk, registered their names and were 
given such accommodation as they wished, — but Mary — be- 
cause she was a woman, was turned adrift. 

Men ogled her, some lifted their hats attempting to at- 
tract her attention, and she realized that only as the unlaw- 
ful and wicked companion of one of these libertines would 
the rooms of the hotels he open to her. That such a condi- 
tion of affairs could exist in a Christian land seemed almost 
impossible, but the wretched truth was before her in all its 
horror. 

One old, white-haired man, with a face so sanctimonious 
that he looked as if he might be the deacon of a church, 
stopped her. ^Wou look good and kind,” she said. ^^Surely, 
you can direct me to some place where I may obtain shelter 
from the storm?” 

But his answer was the same old story, a proposal to Mary 
of infamy and shame, and as she left him she heard him 
murmur : 


LIFE. 


267 


if you are so virtuous, the station house is the best 
place for you, I reckon.” 

As she looked to the east on 29th street, she saw a number 
of buildings with great, flaring, lighted signs in front of 
them. Well dressed women were entering and leaving these 
places and into Mary’s heart there came a ray of hope, — 
surely she had found some place where women were received, 
at last. 

She walked to the nearest resort and following a young 
woman, only a little older than herself, but of more serious 
mien than the majority of those around her, she ascended 
the steps. 

As the door opened a roystering pandemonium of voices 
met her ear; gayly bedizened women sat upon Turkish 
lounges or at small tables, smoking and drinking, some with 
their arms around their male companions’ necks, others with 
their heads resting upon men’s shoulders, some laughing, all 
seemingly happy, and many evidently intoxicated with strong 
drink. 

To poor, unsophisticated Mary, who had been raised in 
an atmosphere of purity, the scene was appaling and it fllled 
her with horror and disgust; a dizziness overcame her; she 
reeled and fainting, fell head foremost down the steps to the 
stone sidewalk below. 

A curious crowd quickly gathered. 

A handsome carriage and pair, with liveried coachman 
and footman, came to a halt at the curb, close to the spot 
where Mary was lying. A woman of middle age with a 
kindly face, her well-rounded form clothed warmly and 
richly in sables, alighted from the vehicle. The men around 
made way for her and, heedless of her dainty dress, she knelt 
by Mary’s side in the trodden, slushy snow. Many costly 
rings sparkled upon her ungloved hand with which she 
gently stroked poor Mary’s bleeding forehead. 

‘‘The poor child has fainted,” she exclaimed, and then in 
a tone of command to the footman, she continued, “Some 
water to bathe her wound and a little brandy to revive her.” 


268 


LIFE. 


“Yes, Madame,” and the fellow ran up the steps down 
which the girl had fallen. 

“She must not lie here in the damp ; some of you men lift 
her into my carriage,” ordered the woman in a voice that 
made it evident that she was used not only to order, hut to 
be obeyed. 

Strong hands raised the girl gently. 

“Her clothing is wet, her face bleeding; she may spoil 
your cushions,” said one of the men. 

“What does that matter, you fool!” replied the woman. 
“Can you not see that she is ill? For my part I would not 
leave a dog to suffer thus, much less a human being.” 

And Mary was placed tenderly upon the soft cushions; 
the brandy and water were brought, her face was bathed and 
under the warming influence of the brandy she soon partly 
regained consciousness and opened her eyes. 

“Where am I?” she asked faintly, as she gazed with sur- 
prise at the scene around her. 

“In good hands, my dear,” said the woman who had taken 
such an interest in her. “You have fallen and hurt yourself; 
shall I drive you home?” 

“I have no home,” sobbed the girl. 

“Then if you have no objection, you shall go with me.” 

For answer, Mary pressed the woman^s hand in gratitude; 
again her eyes closed and her head dropped back upon the 
cushions in dreamless sleep. The troubled mind had found 
momentary peace, but the suffering soul knew not the hor- 
rors that awaited it. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


THE WAGES OF SIN. 

“Oh, dwarfed and wronged, and stained with 111 
Behold ! thou art a woman still ! 

And, by that sacred name and dear 
I bid thy better self appear.” 

— John G. Whittier. 

When Mary awoke the next morning she found herself in 
a warm, soft bed and every imaginable comfort which 
wealth and luxury could furnish surrounded her. The car- 
pets, rugs and furniture were all of the best, beautiful oil 
paintings adorned the richly papered walls, and statuary 
and fancy bric-a-brac were tastily placed around the room 
in plentiful abundance. 

It was some time before she could gather her scattered 
senses together to think where she was or in what manner 
she had come there; she remembered the carriage and the 
lady who had so generously offered her an asylum on the 
previous night, when she had so much needed it, and rightly 
guessed that it was in her home she had slept. 

She sat up in bed. The blinds were only half drawn and 
through the windows she could see a long row of houses on 
the opposite side of the street. The branches of the trees, 
still leafless, were covered with the snow that had fallen 
heavily during the night; the flakes were still descending 
from the grey sky, giving to the city the appearance of mid- 
winter instead of spring. 

The door opened and a young, cleanly dressed colored girl 
entered and began to build a Are in the grate. 

^^Whose house is this?” asked Mary. 

“Madame Baptiste^s,” replied the girl. 


270 


LIFE. 


^‘Did she bring me here 

“Keckon she did, leastwise she wants to know if you will 
have your breakfast sent up, or if you will come down into 
the dining room with the other girls 

‘^Are there other girls living here?” 

^^Sixteen of them.” 

^^Sixteen! Is it a school?” 

‘‘Say, you must me mighty green,” said the colored girl, 
turning to her in surprise. 

“I do not understand you,” faltered Mary. “Is this a 
school, a hotel, a hospital, or what?” 

“A what, I reckon,” replied the girl, grinning. “You^ll 
learn what it is mighty soon or I’se much mistaken.” She 
struck a match, set fire to the kindling and started to leave 
the room. “Breakfast up, or will you come down?” she 
asked, standing in the doorway. 

“Please say to Madame Baptiste that I do not need any 
breakfast; the wound on my forehead is still very painful, 
and, if she has no objection, I will rest.” 

“All right. Missy.” 

The door closed, but Mary could hear her repeating to 
herself: “Am it a school, a hotel, or a what?” and then she 
laughed in evident amusement at Mary’s words. The laugh 
sent a chill to Mary’s heart and for a few moments she lay 
back on her pillow confused, dumf ounded- and afraid. 

Then she arose to dress, determined to leave the place, for 
its possible nature began to dawn upon her bewildered brain, 
but the clothes she had worn on the previous night were 
nowhere to be seen. In the wardrobe were gayly colored 
wrappers, tawdry finery and dresses such as she imagined 
actresses might wear in plays, but in reality nothing like 
anything she had ever seen before. She knew not why, but 
the clothes attracted her, yet filled her with loathing and 
disgust; how sane women could don such apparel, evidently 
made the object of displaying every charm which modesty 
demands that women should strive to hide, she could not, 
for the life of her, imagine. 


LIFE. 


271 


“Into what new danger have I fallen?” she cried. “Into 
what den of iniquity have I been brought? Oh, God! Thy 
punishment is more than I can bear.” 

And she knelt by the bed and prayed, — not one of the 
dull, monotonous prayers learned by heart and reeled parrot- 
like and glibly off the tongue, so little meant and so care- 
lessly spoken that the words are an insult to the God to 
whom they are addressed, — but a prayer that came from the 
heart and mind, every word of which breathed of the agony 
she was suffering. 

“Oh, God!” she prayed aloud, “Thou who didst send Thy 
only Son into this world to lead the wicked and the erring into 
Thy fold, enter within me and abide with me in this my hour 
of trouble. Greatly have I sinned, and though I knew that I 
must suffer for my faults, yet do I pray Thee to prevent me 
from falling further into wickedness and crime. Lead me, 
I ask Thee, oh most merciful Father, into a path of rectitude 
where I may atone for my sins committed, by serving Thee. 
Deliver me from this house of evil, forgive, if possible, the 
great wrong being done, and make not my burden too great 
for me to bear. God bless and aid poor Julian — ” her sobs 
almost choken her utterance as she spoke, — “let him not 
suffer, because he knows not where I am, and keep him, I 
pray Thee, in ignorance as to the nature of my sin and — ” 
she paused, — “forgive — ^poor — Wilfrid — ” 

Her head dropped from her hands onto the bed and for 
some moments she did not speak; then slowly raising her 
eyes towards heaven, she continued: 

“Do this, I ask of Thee! It is so little, — and Thy power 
is so great! Do it and I will consecrate my life to Thee — 
and Thine shall be the glory. Amen !” 

She rose to her feet, climbed into the bed and as she 
laid her head upon the pillow she was surprised to find 
Madame Baptiate standing just inside the doorway. She 
had entered noiselessly during Mary’s prayer and had been 
an attentive and interested listener. 


272 


LIFE. 


^‘Very pretty, my dear,” said that lady softly. “Do you 
often pray?” 

“Daily, Madame, — since my father died,” replied Mary, 
sitting up in bed. 

“Indeed! Then you believe in God and goodness?” ques- 
tioned Madame. 

“Oh, yes. I should be miserable indeed were I to lose my 
faith in Him,” replied the girl. 

“Yet, judging from your prayer. He has permitted you to 
sin?” smiled Madame, with purring sarcasm. 

“Sin is the common inheritance of all,” answered Mary, 
simply. “It is only by obeying our Father’s commandments 
and by walking in the paths He bids us, that we can hope 
for happiness in this world and for forgiveness and life eter- 
nal in the world to come.” 

“I fail to recognize His goodness when He makes sin so 
palatable and a religious life so barren of all the enjoyments 
which this earth offers,” said the elder lady as she crossed 
the room and sat down at the foot of the bed, so as to face 
Mary as she spoke to her. 

“Sin is like some fruit, beautiful to look at, but bitter 
when tasted, for it is full of poison within,” replied Mary. 

“Yet God made that fruit,” argued Madame, “and if He 
desired us to be so good, why should tie create such beauti- 
ful delusions only that He might tempt us and cause our 
downfall ?” 

“He that is not tempted is never tried and knoweth not his 
own worth,” declared Mary firmly. 

“A very pretty doctrine for saints to follow, but unfortu- 
nately I am not one of them, my dear,” responded Madame. 
“God placed Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden and then 
pointed out one tree and told them not to eat of the fruit of 
it; then he sent the devil in the form of a snake to tell them 
how luscious that fruit was. That wasn’t nice in Him at 
all; why, if I had a friend who used me so abominably I’d 
horsewhip him or I’d kill him. Then look at the injustice 
of the affair; we women have been doing all of the suffering 


LIFE. 


273 


erer since the world began; our father Adam was just as 
despicable a beast as the rest of the men whom we meet with 
in our day. ^The woman tempted me/ the cowards cry and 
they, with heads erect, walk proudly through the streets, sit 
as if paragons of virtue on the benches of our courts of law 
and go on Sunday to church and pray as if they were angels, 
while we, whose lives they wreck, are called unclean, infec- 
tious, even pestilent!” 

“Christ forgave the woman taken in adultery,” replied 
Mary. 

“Do the ministers who preach His doctrine follow His ex- 
ample?” argued Madame. “Would a fallen woman who had 
confessed her sin receive a place of honor into their pews?” 
she laughed bitterly as she continued. “She would find, if 
she went to church, a whole pack of hypocritical women, 
who, if the secrets of their lives were known, are worse than 
she is, and they would turn their backs upon her with loath- 
ing, as if her very presence were a curse. My dear, I know! 
I fell, I suffered, I tried reformation, but no helping hand 
was offered me by man or woman, and now I live with but 
two objects, hatred of the men who cause woman’s downfall 
and to profit by their weakness in all ways possible.” 

Mary shuddered visibly and drew herself as far away from 
her companion as she could. 

“Then this house?” she questioned. 

“Is of ill-fame,” replied Madame, lightly. 

“And you have brought me here ” 

“To live here if you wish, — to go in peace as soon as your 
wound is healed, — if you so desire.” 

“Oh, I do desire it, I wish to go even now,” said Mary, as 
she started from the bed. 

“Are you afraid to live here?” asked the woman. 

“Y-y-es!” faltered the girl, trembling with nervous excite- 
ment. 

“Why?” questioned Madame. 

“Because I have never been in such a place before, and I 
wish to leave at once,” replied Mary. 


274 


LIFE. 


“Then what were you doing in the place where I found 
you?” asked the woman. 

“I was never there before,” faltered Mary. “I had wan- 
dered from place to place seeking a room for the night. 
When I saw women entering I thought it might be a hotel 
and when I discovered the nature of it — I suppose I fainted 
and fell. I knew nothing more until I found myself in your 
carriage. Believe me, I thank you very much for the inter- 
est you have taken in me, but I would rather go away.” 

“To be informed again that the doors of the virtuous are 
not open to you,” responded Madame, as she looked with 
great kindness at the girl. “I want you to answer me truth- 
fully; arc you one of my sort, or are you really good?” 

Mary turned her back so as to hide the blush of shame 
which came unbidden to her face. For some moments she 
did not answer. 

“You need not be afraid to tell me,” said her companion. 
“Although the world has hardened all of the best sensibilities 
within me, I am a woman still and you will find me ready 
to help you either up or down the hill of life, just as your 
nature prompts you.” 

Mary turned and whispered her story in the woman’s ear; 
she spoke almost inaudibly, as if afraid that the very walls 
might hear her. 

“And the man, will he marry you?” questioned Madame, 
after her story was finished. 

“He cannot; he has a wife living,” replied the girl. 

“Where is he?” 

“He has gone to the Philippines.” 

“Left you?” 

“Yes!” 

“Just like the dirty curs!” hissed the woman. “Have you 
no means, no money?” 

“None!” 

“And those who called themselves your friends, I suppose 
would not receive you now?” 

“I left of my own accord ; they are ignorant of the cause.” 


LIFE. 


275 ' 


‘‘Your father is dead, I think you said; where is your 
mother 

“I do not know, in England, most likely, if living; she 
ran away from my father when I was but seven years of age.” 

Madame Baptiste placed her hands over her eyes, as if to 
shut off from her sight some horrible vision that confronted 
her. She rose to her feet, and turning her back upon Mary 
walked towards the window. When she spoke again her 
voice seemed hollow, dreadful, strained and unnatural. 

“What — is — your — name?” she asked, with effort. 

“Mary St. John,” replied the girl. 

Intense quiet fell upon the room. Madame Baptiste 
neither turned nor spoke and Mary stood beside the bed 
frightened and afraid to move; nothing could be heard but 
the ticking of the clock upon the mantle-shelf and minutes 
that seemed like hours passed ere the silence was broken by 
the elder woman. 

“You are right, — quite right, child — ” she said, in broken 
accents, — this is no place, — for you!” As she turned to 
Mary she seemed to be transformed into a different being; 
the stern, cold look upon her face had changed to one of in- 
effable love and tenderness; her features were very pale and 
tears filled her eyes. “I never imagined that I should weep 
again,” she continued, “but your story so closely resembles 
that of one who was once very dear to me — and it has 
affected me so much that I am going to ask you to let me kiss 
you — ^just once,” she pleaded, as Mary turned away from her 
with evident aversion ; “it will not harm you and it will be to 
me like a draught of cool water to a famished traveller who is 
lost in a desert which he knows he can never, never leave.” 

She stooped and kissed Mary reverently and tenderly upon 
the forehead. 

“You allude to the life you live?” said Mary. “Why not 
give it up?” 

“You know not what you say, child; you might as well ask 
the miser to throw away his gold, the fond mother to murder 
her innocent babe upon her breast, the drunkard to renounce 


276 


LIFE. 


the liquor that he craves, the morphine fiend to do without 
the drug that drains his life away — as to ask the harlot to 
give up the life she lives; dissipation, — the pace that kills, 
that’s what she wants and what she’ll have. We are like 
balls, once started down the hill our speed increases and 
there is no stopping us until we reach the inevitable abyss 
at the very bottom. 

“That is very sad,” said Mary. “What becomes of you 
when you grow old?” 

“Old?” she repeated, bitterly, “we don’t get old; we could 
not make a living after we have lost our attractiveness; the 
men wouldn’t want us when that is gone, so we live a short 
and merry life and then find one of several routes to take us 
from this world, gas, chloroform, carbolic acid, a bullet, or 
the river! And daily at the morgue you will find some of 
us who have taken our choice of one means or the other; 
And that is why I say that this place is not for you,” she 
added, as she crossed the room and rang the bell, summoning 
the maid. “You shall leave here unharmed, and I, myself, 
will see that you are well provided for.” 

The colored girl entered and Madame Baptiste ordered 
her to fetch the clothes which Mary had worn the night be- 
fore. She returned with them almost instantly and after be- 
ing informed that her services were no longer required she 
left the room. 

Madame assisted Mary to dress and the girl, unused to 
such service, wondered greatly at the attention thus shown 
her. They did not converse, but Mary could not fail to no- 
tice the kindly manner of the woman and the tenderness 
which she displayed towards her. Her toilet was almost 
complete when a man’s loud, coarse voice in the hallway 
startled her and caused the elder woman to tremble. 

“Going away, is she? Well, not if I know myself, and I 
rather think I do,” said the man, and the next instant the 
door opened and he stood before them. 

He was of middle age, with a red face and brutal expres- 
sion. He had a large drooping moustache, and was tall but 


LIFE. 


277 


stockily built. He wore many very large diamonds, and was 
fashionably and loudly dressed. He had evidently been 
drinking heavily, for he swayed to and fro and leaned 
against the bureau for support. 

^‘What do you want?” demanded Madame. 

“Why, the new boarder, of course,” he growled. “They 
say she is going to leave and I say she’s not, leastwise, not 
until I get through with her.” 

Mary stood trembling behind the elder woman, mutely ap- 
pealing to her for aid. 

“Leave the room I” 

Madame Baptiste’s eyes flashed as she spoke the words, and 
the man glared at her in indignant but amused surprise. 

“Hoity-toity!” he exclaimed. “When did you start giving 
orders? Better go yourself, I have business with this girl; 
go on, — get out !” 

“I will not go, nor shall you harm her,” declared Madame, 
flrmly, placing one arm around Mary’s waist as if to shield 
her. 

For answer the brute caught the woman by the neck and 
threw her aside as if she had been a child; then grasping 
Mary by the shoulders he held her tightly to his breast. 

“Give me a kiss ! Oh, you’ll find me on the level if you’re 
square and do the proper thing,” he cried. 

Her heart beat wildly ; his heated and foul smelling breath 
filled her nostrils; she struggled with every effort possible to 
tear herself away from him, but he held her with brute force 
and she could not move. 

“Tom, release her, or you will regret it the longest day 
you live,” cried Madame. 

“Why should I?” he asked, without looking up. 

“Don’t ask me,” she pleaded, “I have always done as you 
said hitherto, do as I beg now !” 

“Why? Why?” argued the man. “Tell me your reasons, 
if you have any, for I want this girl as much — or more than 
any.” 

^‘You can’t have her, Tom, she is MichaeVs and my childT 


278 


LIFE. 


The man released Mary, who ran to a corner of the room 
and there remained, crouching in abject fear. The horror 
of the situation struck her with overwhelming force. This 
woman, this self-acknowledged outcast in whose house she 
was, was her own mother! But the man, — who and what 
was he? 

‘‘MichaePs child, eh?’’ resinned the man, after his brandy- 
soaked and stupefied brain had cleared sufficiently for him to 
realize the facts. ‘^Then you have found her at last, found 
her and brought her here, — like mother, like child, both 
branches from the same root. Well, as Michael’s wife has 
been mine for the past twelve years, why shouldn’t I have the 
daughter, too?” 

And heedless of Mary’s cries he ran to the corner where 
she stood and again caught her in his arms. He forced her 
head back and kissed her madly upon the lips, the cheeks and 
neck. The mother begged, pleaded and entreated, but he 
heard her not; she followed him into the corner and tried to 
beat him off with her fists, but the blows only maddened him 
and intensified his passion; she saw her daughter growing 
weaker in the clutches of the beast; she picked up a small 
statue from the table and with all the force that desperation 
could lend to her despair she struck him with it madly upon 
the head again and again, until the statue was shattered to 
pieces and the man lay senseless at her feet.. 

“What have you done?” cried Mary in alarm, as she saw 
the seemingly lifeless figure of her assailant lying prone, 
face downward, on the floor, a gaping wound in his head, 
from which the blood flowed and trickled down upon the car- 
pet on which he lay. 

“I do not know, — I do not care!” moaned her mother. “I 
have saved you, my daughter, from his clutches and that 
knowledge is enough for me.” She paused, then knelt down 
and placed her hand under his breast and felt his heart; it 
was still beating and she knew he lived; then she arose and 
spurned him with her foot. “I had rather he had died,” she 
said. “It was he who took me from your father’s side, he 


LIFE. 


279 


who wrecked your life and mine and made us what we are. 
For me there is no hope, I am past redemption; but for you 
the world is wide and you can go where none will know you 
and, avoiding evil, you may yet be happy.” She took from 
the pocket of her dress a large roll of money and tried to 
place it in Mary’s hands. “Her6 is money,” she said, ^^use it 
as you wish, and when that is gone you can write to me for 
more. You shall have all you want and all the comfort and 
respect which it can bring. I have wronged you in the past, 
in the future I shall live for you.” 

Again she tried to place the money in Mary’s hand, but 
the girl resolutely pushed it from her. 

“And think you I could live upon the wages of my moth- 
er’s sin?” she asked, and then very gently, for in spite of the 
mother’s shame, stood out the mother’s love, she answered: 
“Mother, I can imagine no greater misery than to be com- 
pelled to use a single penny of that money ; it is true that I, 
too, have sinned, but my fault lay in my love for a man, 
whom I trusted and worshipped better than my God; he 'is 
out of my life now and into it can come no more. We part 
now, and if you should ever leave this life, I trust we may 
be reunited ! If you continue as you are, I pray that we may 
never meet again.” 

They kissed each other and clasped each other’s hands; 
then Mary passed out through the door, down the stairs and 
went out into the street. 

The storm had ceased, the snow covered the ground and it 
was bitter cold; yet the sun was shining and would soon melt 
the snow away, but at Mary’s heart there was a coldness to 
which no warmth in this world could ever bring a thaw, — 
the knowledge of her mother’s wantonness. 


CHAPTEK XXVIII. 


BREAD CAST UPON THE WATERS WILL RETURN. 

“Heaven sends misfortunes — why should we repine? 

’Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see ; 

And your condition may be soon like mine, 

The child of sorrow and of misery.” 

— Thomas Moss. 

When Mary found herself again on Broadway she hesi- 
tated, not knowing which way to turn. 

It was more than fifty hours since she had tasted food ; she 
felt no pang of hunger, but realized that she was very weak 
and knew that she could not travel far. 

Yet she must work to live. 

She decided that she would try to find employment in a 
restaurant; being totally without experience at any sort of 
work by which a woman can earn her living, that seemed to 
be the only chance she had. 

She applied at many places and was informed that no help 
was needed and was beginning to lose heart when one em- 
ployer told her that he not only needed a waitress, but that 
she could start to work at once. 

On asking for particulars as to what would be expected of 
her, she was informed that she would have to work from six 
in the morning until nine at night, with one hour off every 
other afternoon, when she might rest. 

“That is a privilege given in no other restaurant along 
Broadway, explained the man, proudly. “I do not believe 
in working my girls too hard.” 

“And Sunday?” she inquired. 

“Oh, Sunday is just like any other day with us, excepting 
that we do not open until seven. People must eat, you 
know,” argued the proprietor. 


LIFE. 


281 


“And the wages she asked. 

“On that point, I am considered more than liberaV’ he 
declared, with a smile. “I pay my girls four dollars a week; 
very few give them more than three.” 

“I do not know how I can clothe myself and find shelter 
on so small a sum,” she said. 

“Why, if you have no gentleman friend to help you pay 
expenses, a pretty girl like you will have no trouble to find 
one while working here,” he hinted. 

Poor Mary began to imagine that everyone was vile and 
wicked and that no goodness could be met with in all the 
world; but she realized that she was so placed that she must 
endure insult without resentment and that there was no 
other course left open for her but to accept the work and 
wages which were offered. 

And she did. 

She gave her name as Florence West and told her em- 
ployer that she preferred not to give any address just then, 
as she intended to change her lodgings after she left off work 
that very night. She had determined to sink her identity 
entirely so as to make it almost impossible for her former 
friends to find her, if they should care enough to make the 
effort. 

The rush of the noon hour over, she sat a moment to rest 
her tired limbs and aching feet, but all hope of doing so was 
instantly dispelled, for her employer informed her it was 
positively against the rules for employees to sit during 
working hours. So she toiled on until late in the afternoon, 
when exhausted nature, now sadly overtaxed, refused to an- 
swer any more demands upon it. She grew faint, a dizziness 
she could not overcome seized her, her tired head drooped, 
she felt her senses leaving her and would have fallen upon 
the marble floor had not one of her companions caught her 
as she sank. 

A physican, who happened to be in the restaurant at the 
time, after a careful examination, pronounced her to be suf- 
fering from exposure and starvation. An ambulance was 


282 


LIFE. 


summoned and Mary, under her new name of Florence West, 

was taken to Bellevue Hospital. 

****** 

^^Good evening. Doctor Button-hook.” 

‘^No, no, no! Boutenhoff.” 

^^Well, Doc, that is just what I said, — Button-off I” 

tell you my name was neider Button-hook nor Button- 
off! It is Boutenhoff ! Do you hear? — Boutenhoff ! Doctor 
Boutenhoff. Und if you expect any news from me for your 
crazy paper you vill please treat me mit respect und call me 
by my proper name of Boutenhoff.” 

^^All right, — Button-hook !” 

^^No, no! Boutenhoff! B-O-U-T-E-N-H-O-double-F !” 
cried the Doctor, spelling his name and fairly yelling each 
letter at the reporter, who only smiled. 

“Well, Doc, don’t let trifles trouble you! Come, have a 
fresh cigar with me,” he said, and he felt in his waistcoat 
pocket as if expecting to And cigars, but none were there. 
He was in no ways disconcerted, however, for the next mo- 
ment he reached over and drew two cigars from the Doctor’s 
vest. 

“We are all right now. Doc,” he said; “throw away your 
butt and smoke with me.” 

And he offered the Doctor one of his own cigars, put the 
other one in his mouth and cooly bit off the end. 

Dr. Boutenhoff looked at him and smiled, then handing 
the reporter his matchbox, remarked: 

“I suppose you vill vant a match, too ?” 

“Thanks!” said the newspaper man, accepting the match 
and lighting the cigar. 

“Nice weed, this!” he added. “Genuine Havana, or I am 
much mistaken.” 

“Yah! I tink you find it pretty good, Mr. — Mr. — Cheek! — 
I tink you said your name vas cheek — sometimes — eh?” 
quizzed the Doctor. 

“Button-hook, my name is Morton.” 

“Mr. Cheek, my name is Boutenhoff!” 


LIFE. 


283 


course, Boutenoff.” 

^^Cheek!’’ 

‘‘Button-off ! Button-hook ! Button-off !” 

“Cheek!” 

“Time! Time!” cried the reporter, holding up his hands. 
“I think we had better cry quits!” 

“Yah! Cry kVits und kVit!” consented the Doctor. 

“And say, Button-off, I won’t call you Button-hook any 
more.” 

“Dot’s right, for it does make me mad mit you, so mad, 
dot I could leek you — of I dared.” 

The reporter was our old friend, the Major, and the Doc- 
tor was the receiving physician at Bellevue Hospital. 

This conversation took place in one of the offices of that 
institution the next morning after Mary had been taken 
there in the ambulance. 

The Major opened the gate marked “Private” and passed 
in back of the railing to the space reserved solely for the phy- 
sicians and other employees of the hospital and sat down by 
the desk of Doctor Boutenhoff. 

“And now, Doc, that peace has been restored, I want you 
to give me a full account of the murders, deaths and acci- 
dents that have come under your notice in the last twenty- 
four hours,” he said; and he took out his reporter’s pad, 
cocked his feet upon the Doctor’s desk and settled back in 
his chair, prepared to note down all the important incidents 
which might be given him. 

“I vish very mooch dot you vould take your feet off my 
desk,” suggested the Doctor. 

“Certainly, my boy ! Don’t let trifles trouble you,” replied 
the Major, as he pulled up an extra chair and withdrawing 
his feet from the desk placed them upon the cushioned seat. 

TJhe Doctor put on his glasses and eyed him austerely. 

‘^Say, you have more cheek ,” he began. 

“Look out, Mr. Buttonhook,” put in the Major, as if to 
warn him against another war of words. 

“I refuse to converse mit you,” declared the Doctor, rising. 


284 


LIFE. 


^‘Ha! ha! ha!” loudly guffawed the Major. “Don’t get 
mad. It shows very bad taste on your part and, besides, 
you will live to be twice as old if you take life coolly as I do.” 

“Say, you are the funniest fellow vot I ever know,” said the 
Doctor, returning to his seat. “I vould like to get mad mit 
you, und den you laugh at me, und make fun mit me, und I 
can’t did it no way possible.” 

“Well, let us have the news,” said the Major, sharpening 
his pencil and allowing the shavings and powdered lead to 
fall upon the carpet. 

“Oh, dere vas an actress brought here for de fourth time 
mit delirium tremens,” began the Doctor. 

“I don’t want her case, I have written her up before,” in- 
terrupted the reporter. 

“Veil, dere vos two or three more female alcohol-eeks,” 
suggested Boutenhoff. 

“Oh, those things are daily occurrences and becoming 
tiresome,” replied the Major. “It seems to me that the men 
are getting better and the women worse. Why, when I was 
a boy I remember that I very seldom saw a drunken wo- 
man.” 

“Veil, dot vas pretty nearly so,” consented Boutenhoff. 
“Let me see vot vill interest you,” he added. “A voman 
vaitress brought in here starving, — say, you might make 
k’vite a funny heading out of dot.” 

“I do not care to mix sorrow with comedy, the two don’t 
blend,” declared the Major. “Besides, the case is too tame. 
I want something startling, uncanny and entirely out of the 
ordinary.” 

“Veil, I fix you,” said the Doctor. “Dere is a voman in de 
detention vard whose husband nearly kicked her to death be- 
cause she refused to support him longer mit his idleness; 
she has von eye oudt und a broken collar bone.” 

“Capital!” cried the Major. “That’s what I want. Have 
any of the other reporters got it yet?” 

“No, she vas only brought in an hour ago.” 


LIFE. 


285 


*‘Well, keep it to yourself and the next time I come round 
1^11 treat to the cigars.” 

“My cigars — or yours?” asked the Doctor. 

“Why, yours, of course,” laughed the Major, as he rose to 
his feet. “Doc, I want to see that woman just as soon as 
possible,” he added. 

A ward orderly was called and the Major was conducted to 
the detention ward. 

The house surgeon and staff were just making their rounds 
accompanied by a half dozen students, who assisted at each 
bedside, made notes from the nurses’ report cards of the 
change in the condition of each patient and of the new pre- 
scriptions filled out by the surgeons. 

The Major had not arrived at the cot of the woman whom 
he had come to interview, when a most unexpected sight met 
his eyes. 

It was Mary St. J ohn, very weak, very pale and ill, and as 
he saw her she recognized him and tried to hide her face in 
the pillows of her bed. 

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” he said to the ward 
orderly. “I should like to see this lady for a moment alone.” 

And as the orderly walked away in an opposite direction, 
the Major came and stood by the side of Mary’s bed. 

“Miss St. John,” he said, softly, “I had not expected to 
find you here.” 

“I suppose not,” she replied, her head still turned away 
from him, “and if you wish to serve me you will kindly not 
mention my real name here.” 

“You have changed your name?” he asked, wonderingly. 

“Yes, I am known here as Florence West,” she replied. 

“But why?” 

“It was necessary; please do not question me any fur- 
ther.” 

“Does Julian know ?” he asked. 

“Mo, no, no!” she cried, affrighted, and she turned her 
great eyes towards him, begging for his silence in their mute 
appeal. 


286 


LIFE. 


“If you are in trouble he must surely be informed,” he in- 
sisted. 

“I have left Julian’s home never to return,” she said, 
quietly. “That is why I have changed my name. It was 
necessary in order to prevent his ever finding me.” 

“Was he cruel to you?” 

“Oh, no; he was the best, the truest friend God ever gave 
to a woman,” she replied. “The fault was altogether mine. 

I was unworthy of his goodness and I want you to promise 
me that you will never let him know you have seen me. An- 
other meeting between us would mean more misery for both 
than either one of us could bear.” 

“If it is best, you can count upon my silence,” he replied. 
“But, if in trouble, you surely need some friend; won’t you 
place your trust in me ?” he asked. 

“You are very kind, but believe me, you can do nothing. 
Don’t seek to know my story. Keep Julian in utter ignor- 
ance of my whereabouts and you will make me very happy,” 
she said, but the Major saw in her face the happiness gone 
from her young life and in its place was misery, abject, hope- 
less misery. 

“I will call again,” he said. “Perhaps to-morrow you will 
not refuse my proffered aid.” 

“It is my desire that I shall never again see any one whom 
I knew in the old life,” she answered. “Henceforth, my path 
lies in an opposite direction. Please not to call. You are 
very good to take such an interest in me, but I really do not 
wish it.” 

“As you wish,” he replied gently, and bidding her good- - 
bye he again joined the ward orderly and passed on through 
the room, making notes of many of the stories told him by 
the patients. When he left the ward, he entered the dis- 
pensary and called for the head matron. 

When she came he took her to one side and questioned 
her regarding Mary. 

“The girl, Florence West,” he said, earnestly, “I am well 


LIFE. 


287 


acquainted with her friends and am, therefore, more than in- 
terested in her case. What seems to be the matter?” 

^^Starvation and exhaustion,” said the nurse. 

“Strange!” replied the Major. 

“We have been unable to obtain information regarding 
her home,” stated the matron. “Perhaps you might inform 
us how we could locate her husband.” 

“Her husband?” repeated the Major. 

“Yes, he should surely be notified of her condition,” re- 
plied the nurse. 

“She has no husband,” replied the Major. 

“She is enciente !” declared the woman. 

“My God!” 

The usually cool and unimpressionable Major staggered, 
as if some one had dealt him a fearful blow. 

“Julian!” he gasped. But the feeling of doubt and mis- 
giving against his friend passed in a moment. He knew his 
sincerity, his unswerving integrity, his high regard for the 
chastity of women, his goodness and his genuine worth too 
well to suspect him but for one instant of so foul a deed. 

The nurse watched him closely and secretly and made up 
her mind that the man before her was the guilty one. 

“You are doubtless aware that this is a city institution 
and that we do not keep patients here a day longer than we 
deem absolutely necessary,” she said. “The girl will be suffi- 
ciently recovered by to-morrow to be discharged. Will you 
tell us where to send her?” 

“I donT know,” he said, “but I will find out before the day 
is over. You will hear from me again.” 

He went out and the matron murmured to herself : 

“He’ll not return. It is quite evident that he is to blame 
for the girl’s condition. He’ll leave her to her fate, just as 
nearly all the others do.” 

The Major went with all speed to the newspaper office and 
the first person he hunted up was Eichard Crowe, for whom 
he had secured the position of bookkeeper, as he had prom- 


288 


LIFE. 


ised, and whose worldly prospects had greatly changed for 
the better since last we saw him. 

It was noon hour; the clerks had gone to lunch, and the 
Major was rejoiced to find Richard alone. 

^‘Dick,^’ he said, “did not Mary St. John pay the money 
which you borrowed from Mrs. Riley and her crippled son?” 

“Yes, God bless her !” said Richard. “She paid it unasked, 
out of the goodness of her heart and of her own free will.” 

“Have you returned the money to her?” 

“Not yet.” 

“If she were in trouble would you help her?” 

“Would I ? You bet your life I would !” 

“No matter what she had done?” 

“No matter what she had done!” replied Richard, firmly. 
“The service she did me I feel I can never repay.” 

“Dick, I am glad to hear you talk like that; it shows the 
manhood in you,” said the Major, as he clasped his hand. 

He told him all that had occurred at Bellevue Hospital 
and Richard did not interrupt him until his story was fin- 
ished. Then the two men looked at each other silently, try- 
ing to read the other’s thoughts. 

“Whom — do — ^you — ^suspect?” at length asked Richard, in 
a low, strained whisper. 

Another painful silence followed. The Major did not re- 
ply- 

“Not Julian?” questioned Richard in alarm, as he went 
forward and placed his hand upon the other’s shoulder. “I 
would stake my life upon his honor.” 

“And so would I,” answered the Major, softly. 

Richard took his hand and pressed it hard. The tears 
were gathering fast in both men’s eyes. 

“If not Julian — who then?” said Richard. 

There was another pause, then their eyes met; a look of 
horror overspread the face of Richard and his cheeks whit- 
ened with rage. 

“Wilfrid !” was all he said. 


LIFE. 


289 


^‘They were much together,” responded the Major, very 
quietly. 

“If he be guilty, then, although he is my nephew, I say it 
is a pity they did not kill him in Cuba,” said Eichard. “I 
would have sooner seen him dead than think this. If Julian 
ever learns the truth, may God help him when they meet ! 
Julian loved Mary better than his life and Wilfrid could 
have done no greater wrong than this, for he knew it! 
Brother against brother — oh, the unnatural, beastly cur!” 

The Major had seldom seen a man so enraged as Eichard 
Crowe. He loved his nephew Julian, and the thought of 
Wilfrid’s treachery filled him with abhorrence. So utterly 
repugnant to him was the part Wilfrid had played, that 
Mary’s sin was forgotten. He only realized the sad duty 
that devolved upon him — to rescue the girl from the sad 
plight in which his heartless nephew had placed her. He 
must come to her relief as she had come to his. 

That night Eichard and his wife talked the matter over 
and the next morning Mrs. Crowe called at Bellevue Hospital 
and after much persuasion induced Mary to return with her 
to her new home in upper Harle’m. She promised that 
Julian should not learn of her whereabouts, a matter ren- 
dered quite easy of fulfillment, as Julian seldom called upon 
them, now that they lived so far away from the Mission. 

And everything that Mr. and Mrs. Crowe could do to light- 
en Mary’s burden was done. 

Thus six months passed and the hour of her travail was 
fast approaching. 


10 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


FORGOTTEN IN THE HOUR OP TROUBLE. 

“Yet now despair Itself is miid, 

Even as the winds and waters are ; 

I could lie down like a tired child 
And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne and yet must bear, — 

Till death, like sleep, might steal on me. 

And I might feel in the warm air 

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.’’ 

— Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

The summer had been an unusually warm one, but 
September days brought a delightful coolness long desired. 

One morning, Mary sat in the parlor of Mrs. Growers 
pleasant flat. It was the boys’ first day at school after a 
long vacation, Mr. Crowe had gone downtown to his daily 
labor and Mary was more than glad that an opportunity had 
at last come when she could have a long chat with the 
woman who had so kindly sheltered her. 

She had been making new shirts for the boys and laid 
down her work as Mrs. Crowe entered the room. 

^^Aunt Eliza,” she began, know you must realize as 
plainly as I do that the time has come when I must leave 
you. I know, that with your kind heart, you would allow me 
to remain here all through the bitter hours of my great mis- 
fortune, but you have a family, two sons who have arrived at 
an age when you can keep them no longer in ignorance of 
certain things which you would rather hide from them. 
They must be considered, and for that reason it is best that 
I should go away.” 

“Well, I shall not allow you to go,” said Mrs. Crowe, in her 


LIFE. 


291 


most decided tone. Mary looked at her in a supplicating, 
pleading manner. 

‘‘It is of no use to turn those postulatory looks on me,” 
resumed Mrs. Crowe, “in your present state you are entirely 
too impuissant to be left alone. No, I shall not let you go.” 

“Believe me, it is imperative that I should,” replied Mary. 
“You have already done too much for me and I cannot suf- 
fer myself to become further indebted to your goodness.” 

“My dear, you are not in this poor habitacle of mine on ac- 
count of mercenary considerations, as you know. I recog- 
nized your many noble qualities and believe your aberancy to 
be entirely hereditarious and, therefore, with an epideistic 
spirit, I received you from the first.” 

“Your kindness only increases my suffering,” said Mary. 

“There — there — dear,” replied Mrs. Crowe, “let me wipe 
away those tears,” and she crossed to Mary, and with the 
corners of her apron began to pat the girks cheek where the 
tear-drops had been falling. “Do you know, when you talk 
about increasing your suffering, these little lachrymental epi- 
sodes act in a most acerative manner to my own troubles? 
Why, during your visit here you have abnegated yourself in 
every manner, — you have shown no acedia and have taken 
half of the household duties off my hands. I really cannot 
opine how I could get along without you, so why should I 
not turn my place into a lazar-house if I wish? Why, I 
think it would be extremely litherly of you to leave me in 
such an infelicific manner.” 

Mary looked up. She did not know what Mrs. Crowe 
meant and was about to ask her. 

“Now, don’t look at me in that agoggled manner and don’t 
reply,” said that lady. “It is utter folly for you to use any 
frigorific arguments with me and I am not to be expunged 
by any of your pleadings.” 

“I have firmly made up my mind that I will go to a hos- 
pital,” said Mary. 

“What !” said Mrs. Crowe, “when I had myself determined 
to be your accoucheuse! It is too bad, after all, that you 


292 


LIFE. 


did not have an abigeat; I spoke to Dick about it when you 
first came here, but like all men, he would not listen to it. 
He said it was too biolytical.” 

“Did he 

“Well, no ! Of course, Dick didnH use that word. In the 
highter grade of conversation, the poor man is entirely in- 
doct; it is really too bad, for in all other matters he pos- 
sesses a wonderful acuity and as to his virtue, — I declare he 
has had a thorough exterpitation of all men’s vices! You 
will forgive these laudatory venditations about my husband, 
won’t you? It is better to be praising him than wasting 
words in virulent admonitorial vituperation against him, is 
it not?” 

“I suppose it is, aunty, but I really do not know what you 
are talking about,” said Mary. 

“My dear, pardon my seeming vaniloquence, such words 
come to me uneschievably ! If you would pattern after me, 
all you have to do is to study lexicography as assiduously as 
I have done.” 

And Mrs. Crowe pointed to the table upon which lay a 
volume of Webster, dog-eared, soiled by thumbing and thor- 
oughly worn out by constant handling. 

“Oh, I could never learn all those hard words,” pleaded 
Mary. 

“To me it was very easy,” proudly affirmed Mrs. Crowe. 

But the condition of the dictionary told a vastly different 
story. 

Mary walked to the window. Mrs. Crowe had appeared 
to be thoroughly determined not to listen to any argument 
she had so far advanced in regard to her going away and she 
must needs bring forward some other reason. Her face was 
warm and feverish and she pressed it against the window. 
Suddenly she started, and stepping back, drew the lace cur- 
tains together, as if to hide herself from pedestrians on the 
street. 

“What is it?” questioned Mrs. Crowe in alarm. 

“Julian and little Ned,” she answered faintly, “They 


LIFE. 


293 


were looking up at the window and I am sure they saw me.’^ 

A ring from the street door sounded plainly in the little 
kitchen at the other end of the flat. 

‘‘Don’t push the button yet,” answered Mary, nervously, 
“what shall I do?” 

“Hide yourself in your own room and lock the door, of 
course. I’ll get rid of them as soon as possible,” said Mrs. 
Crowe, becoming excited enough to talk like a rational hu- 
man being. 

“Let us look around and hide everything that might pos- 
sibly betray my presence,” said Mary, and the two women 
ran from room to room, picking up every little thing in 
sight which Mary owned. 

The bell rang again, the girl’s belongings were carried to 
her room and as Mary proceeded to lock herself in, Mrs. 
Crowe went into the kitchen and pushed the button which 
opened the street door. 

The footsteps of Julian and Ned were soon heard, as they 
ascended the stairway. Mrs. Crowe hastily brushed her 
hair, powdered her face, took off her apron and opened the 
hall door to admit the visitors. 

“Well, well, well,” she cried, “the interregnum since your 
last visit has been of such prolongation that I had almost 
given up the hope of ever seeing you again, my dear nephew.” 
She kissed Julian and then proceeded to pat Ned upon the 
shoulder. “Ned, I am more than glad to see you,” she said. 
“Come, both of you and try, if possible, to be inconvenienced 
by the incommodiousness of my little Harlem flat.” 

They entered, and as Mrs. Crowe led them through the 
apartment to the front of the house, she noticed that Julian’s 
eyes looked everywhere for someone or something. 

“Are you all alone, to-day?” he asked after they were 
seated. 

“Entirely,” she replied. 

“And there has been no one with you in the last half 
hour?” he questioned, anxiously. 

“No one,” she answered. “The boys are at school, your 


294 


LIFE. 


uncle at his office and his wife is in a state of loneliness and 
not of quantitativeness.” 

She smiled; Julian looked very serious and Ned’s face 
showed plainly that there was something which he could not 
understand. 

“Why, Julian, you look as if something terrible had hap- 
pened,” continued Mrs. Crowe. “You surely have not come 
to give me a jobation. The excitement of getting the boys 
ready for school has flustrated me and I need some one to 
levigate my feelings, not to cast me down.” 

“Aunt, why did you not answer the bell the first time I 
rang?” asked Julian. 

“Nephew,” I am fast growing invalitudinary and old,” 
replied his aunt with a sigh, “and when you rang I was 
quiescently enjoying myself in a state of recumbency.” 

“Before I rang, both Ned and I saw, or thought we saw, a 
lady at your window.” 

“Must have been some one in the next flat,” declared Mrs. 
Crowe, quickly. 

“The lady was the living image of my lost ward, Mary St. 
John,” declared Julian, looking straight into the eyes of his 
aunt. 

She felt very uncomfortable, but she returned his gaze and 
restrained her feelings. 

“An imaginational delusion of your brain!” she said. 

“That one person might have been deceived, I will admit, 
but in this case two people saw the lady plainly,” insisted 
the minister. 

“Dat’s so, Mrs. Crowe,” added Ned, “and ’taint de forst 
toime wot I’ve seen her neider. I seen her yesterday as plain 
as I see youse now.” 

“Nonsense!” declared Mrs. Crowe. 

“’Taint nonsense, on de level, ma’em,” declared the boy. 
“I tell youse I seen her ! — an’ war n’t dopey, ner tubbed up an’ 
likely to see things as wasn’t, — you hear me!” 

“Aunt, answer me truthfully, is Mary here?” demanded 
Julian. 


LIFE. 


295 


She looked at him defiantly and answered: 

“I have said before and say again, she is not here!” 

^‘May we search the flat ?” he asked. 

‘‘Huh!” grunted Mrs. Crowe, “your actuosity in this mat- 
ter is almost unbearable and my absolutely veracious habits 
you so doubt that, you, my nephew, almost call me a menteur 
a triple etage. It is monstrous !” she cried, with well-feigned 
anger. “Certainly, search every room in the place if you so 
desire.” 

Mrs. Crowe thought this speech would put an end to 
Julian’s suspicions, but it did not. 

“Come, Ned,” he said to the cripple. 

“I shall not trouble myself to go with you,” said Mrs. 
Crowe, “the jactitation of this senseless folly has really made 
me languescent,” and she fanned herself fast and furious, 
rocking backward and forward in her chair in a manner that 
plainly showed she had lost her temper. 

“I find one door locked,” Julian called from the private 
hallway. 

“That is your uncle’s den. It is where he keeps his in- 
ventions and he allows no one to enter,” called back Mrs. 
Crowe. 

“Guess dat’s so, boss, it’s dark as pitch,” said Ned, who 
had been trying to look through the keyhole. 

Mary, from the other side of the door, could hear them; 
she had, fortunately, hung a coat over the door-knob, which 
effectually obscured the light. 

Her heart beat wildly. Julian had done so much for her, 
was even searching for her at this very moment, believing 
in her purity and goodness. She knew that if she had ever 
needed his friendship and protection, it was now. And he 
was so near, this man whose great love she had cast aside! 
But the irrevocable step had been taken; nothing could 
palliate her fault, — in suffering and misery she might make 
atonement to her God, but to Julian she could never return. 

In her despair it seemed as if her brain would burst; she 
held her hands tightly across her throbbing temples, she 


296 


LIFE. 


gazed into the looking-glass and wondered why her hair had 
not turned white. She looked at her pale, worn face and 
thought of what she was and what she had been in the good 
days in Julian’s home, and as she stood there, frightened at 
her own reflections, she realized indeed the vast difference 
between the two brothers, — the one whom she had forsaken, 
still loved her ; while the other, to whom she had surrendered 
honor and everything that a woman holds most dear, had 
forgotten and deserted her, — and even though .possessed of 
the knowledge of her shame and suffering, did not even care. 

Small wonder that she knelt beside the bed and tried to 
pray — and could not. 

She buried her face in the pillows, as if to hide from the 
terrible visions that rose before her. She pressed the ends 
of the pillows over her ears, as if to shut out the warnings 
that seemed to come to her from some unseen and fearful 
messenger, but her brain was on fire and in her imaginings 
a thousand demons rose and danced around her. They 
laughed and made light of her misery; then they caught her 
and sought to drag her down into a hell from which she 
knew there could be no turning back! Then Julian came. 
He fought with the demons and beat them off one by one, 
then, holding out his hand to her, was about to rescue her, 
when Wilfrid came and drove a knife into Julian’s heart 
and the blood flowed and as the man of virtue sank he looked 
with infinite tenderness at his brother and cried: 

^Wou know not what you do, I pity and forgive!” 

Then a band of angels appeared and were about to bear 
his spirit up to heaven, when the demons rose again and 
fought with God’s messengers and vanquished them, — and as 
they cast Julian into a burning pit, Wilfrid laughed, and, 
placing his arm around Mary’s waist, said; 

^^Come, there are more pleasant paths for us; lust, wine 
and happiness shall be our gods,” and though Mary strug- 
gled to free herself from him, she was helpless and he bore 
her away in his strong arms, she knew not whither. 


LIFE. 


297 


The sound of voices in the hallway soon dispelled her il- 
lusions. 

‘^1 find no one in the flat,” said Julian, as with Ned, he 
returned to the parlor. 

^‘Well, I told you, didn’t I?” said his aunt. 

‘^But still I insist that I saw her standing at that window,” 
argued Julian, ^‘and either I a,ni the victim of some strange 
hallucination, or you are hiding from me, for some unknown 
reason, the woman whom I think more of than I do of life. 
Have you the key of the door I found locked?” he asked. 

^^No!” she answered sharply. ‘‘Your uncle always keeps 
it with him and when he returns, to-night, I shall certainly 
acquaint him with your reprehensible conduct, which, let 
me add opexegetically, is simply scandalous and certainly 
deserving of reproof.” 

“Aunt, I feel certain that Mary St. John is hidden here,” 
was all he answered. 

“Well, after having searched my house with less respect 
than a vile detective would exhibit, I should think that you 
would be willing to acknowledge your improflcient ineptitude 
to prove your suspicions, and be willing to retire from the 
field with an acknowledgement that you have been beaten in 
spite of your hyperactivity,” said his aunt. 

“Do you mean that as an invitation to leave?” asked Julian 
in surprise. 

“Well, you are welcome to look upon it in that light, if 
you so desire,” replied Mrs. Crowe. 

“Come, Ned,” he said, “we can find neither help, assistance 
or sympathy in this house, where of all places in the world 
I had expected it. Good-bye,” he added to Mrs. Crowe. “I 
shall go at once to my uncle’s office and will endeavor to 
learn more from him.” 

“Hope you will be successful,” called Mrs. Crowe as they 
were going down the stairs; then she went to her room and 
put on her hat. 

“Poor Julian!” she said to herself, “there is more help, 
assistance and sympathy given to him in this house than in 


298 


LIFE. 


any other. If he knew the truth, his heart would be broken 
and even at the risk of losing his love and respect we will 
keep him in ignorance of Mary’s sin.” 

She went to the nearest drug store and telephoned to 
Kichard, acquainting him with all that had happened, so 
that he might not be taken by surprise when Julian called, 
as he had said he intended doing. 

“Oh, what a lot of lies I shall have to answer for!” she 
thought, as she ascended the stairs to her flat a few minutes 
later. “Let me see, what is it the Bible says: ^Thou shalt 
not bear false witness against thy neighbor,’ well, I haven’t 
borne false witness against, but for my neighbor, so, perhaps, 
my sin is not so terrible after all.” 

When she entered the flat she found Mary dressed, as if 
ready for a journey. 

“Why, you are not going out?” she asked. 

“Yes, aunty, you see now how necessary it has become. 
Julian will return, and the next time he would surely dis- 
cover me. It is to your interest, to mine and to his, that I 
should go — and go I will!” 

Mrs. Crowe saw in the quiet, resolute look upon Mary’s 
countenance, that it would be useless to try to dissuade her 
from her fixed resolution, yet would not listen to her going 
unless she was permitted to accompany her, a service which 
Mary did not desire, but finally accepted. 

An hour later found the two women at a Boman Catholic 
hospital, where Mary was received and given the best room 
in the house. Mrs. Crowe arranged all the details, paid all 
the bills and instructed the sister in charge, to give her every 
attention and luxury, no matter what the cost might be. 

The sisters were very kind to the poor sufferer and daily 
Mrs. Crowe called to bring her words of consolation and 
whisper messages of hope. 

One day, when the hour of her travail was near, the 
Sister Superior sat upon one side of the bed and Mrs. Crowe 
on the other. 

“Mary,” said the latter ; there was. infinite kindness in her 


LITE. 


299 


tone, and she dropped the use of extravagant language and 
bombastic words during these visits of mercy, ^‘you are, per- 
haps, lying in the shadow of death and an imperative duty 
devolves upon you.’’ 

“What is it?” asked Mary, wearily. 

“You must tell us the name of your seducer.” 

“Oh, no, no, no!” she cried, sitting up in bed. 

The sister, with the gentlest of persuasion forced her to lie 
down again and Mrs. Crowe continued: 

“In case of accident it is best we should know. I will 
promise not to reveal it unless the worst should come. If 
you were to die, dear, it would only be right that the father 
should be forced, if possible, to do justice to the child.” 

“Oh, he never would, he never would,” sobbed Mary. “He 
would disown it, as surely as he has forgotten me! I loved 
him once, but I hate him now! Hate him! Hate him! 
Hate him!” she cried. “Yes, hate him and I shall hate his 
child!” 

“If your love is dead, why not reveal his name?” asked 
Mrs. Crowe. 

“That’s it, that’s it,” replied Mary, and the faint smile 
upon her lips showed that her mind was wandering back to 
the days when she had thought her lover to be true^ and 
good. 

“My love is dead,” she went on, “but the memory of that 
love is living yet, and for the sake of that dear past, when I 
trusted, loved and honored him, I will not tell his name — 
if I die — my secret shall be buried with me in the grave.” 

And all attempts of persuasion on the part of Mrs. Crowe 
and the good sister failed to make her waver in her deter- 
mination. 

********** 

Four weeks later, entirely against the wishes of the sis- 
ters and unknown to Mrs. Crowe, Mary left the hospital. 
She was pale, thin, worn and haggard and a strange light 


300 


LIFE. 


was in her eyes. A new problem in life was opening before 
her. 

She carried in her arms a little infant boy and passersby 
heard her call him — Wilfrid.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 


WEARY OF life's STRUGGLE. 

“Weary of living, so weary — 

Tired of the failure and sin ; 

Tired of a life so dreary, 

Where sorrow and I are akin. 

“Why should we wait for the morrow 
When every breath Is a pain — 

Every heart-throb a sorrow 
And only regret in vain? 

“I am tired of it all — am weary — 

So here let the last chapter end. 

Tired of a life so dreary. 

Where sadness and sorrow blend.” 

— Mrs. M. C. Whidden. 

(Written just before her suicide.) 

Mary had firmly made up her mind to two things. In the 
first place, she would not go back to Mrs. Crowe’s ; she would 
take no chance of ever being discovered by Julian; she felt 
she could start life again with new surroundings and ac- 
quaintances who were ignorant of her past, but she could 
never hold up her head amongst those who had once been her 
friends, especially with the child, a living evidence of her 
sin, always present to remind them of her unhappy downfall. 

Secondly, she had resolved that as soon as she left the 
hospital, she would find shelter for the child with some good 
woman, where it could receive every comfort. She would 
work for its support and for enough money for her own 
needs. She did not care what kind of work was offered her, 
she would accept it, if it only enabled her to provide for her- 
self and child. 

The plan seemed easy to be carried out. She had often 


302 


LIFE. 


heard “there was enough work for everybody in the world, 
providing everybody was willing to work,^^ but she had for- 
gotten that the saying made no mention of the incumbrance 
of a baby. 

She did not love the child. No pleasant thoughts came 
to her, as to most mothers, that the little one had been sent 
to her from heaven. When she looked into its tiny face and 
laughing eyes and imagined she could trace the features of 
Wilfrid, no feeling of pride and happiness filled her heart. 
In its place came memories of her trust in the man who had 
thoughtlessly wrecked her life and then cast her aside. She 
lived again through the days when she had waited for his 
coming and blindly trusted to his faith and honor; then on 
through the weary months of despair and misery through 
which she had gone on account of him. She recalled only 
the pain and suffering — not the joys of motherhood. She 
pictured to herself the baby grown to manhood, the living 
image of that other Wilfrid. How she hated his handsome 
face and the honeyed words of his flippant tongue! In her 
imaginings she could see him deceiving and ruining others 
as he had her and leaving them to perish, to become outcasts 
or wantons. Would this little one, his child, follow in his 
footsteps? It was at such times as these that she almost 
hated the little one that lay on her breast. She knew it was 
wicked, that the child was not responsible for the evil its 
father had wrought and should not suffer, but God visits the 
sins of the fathers upon the children, and sooner than see 
him following in the footsteps of that other Wilfrid, she felt 
that she could twist its little throat and crush out its baby 
life with her own hands. 

“He would be better dead !” she would say as such thoughts 
filled her mind. “It would be better for him and better for 
the women he would meet in the years to come.’^ 

And thus poor Mary, in her ignorant way, argued much 
on the same lines as Aristotle, Solon and Plato had done in 
the centuries of long ago. 

Often, as such thoughts crowded into her brain, the little 


LIFE. 


303 


one would coo, coo, and laugh and tug at her hair with its 
tiny fists, and then she would fold him to her heart as if to 
shield him from the wickedness and horrors of the world. 
And then, oh hitter thought, she would wonder how she could 
ever have thought of Wilfrid, when Julian had been there; 
Julian, with his boundless love, which was all for her, — 
Julian, as whose wife she might have gone through life one 
of the proudest and happiest women in the world and whose 
children and whose children’s children would have been 
blessings to her — and not the curse that little Wilfrid was. 

But her duty in life lay in bringing up that little one as 
best she could. She must teach him to walk in the way he 
should go and point out to him the danger spots of life’s 
treacherous pathway, so that he might avoid them; and this 
duty she was determined to perform in spite of all obstacles 
that might arise. She would forget herself, and live only 
in the future and for her child! 

When Mary left the hospital, she went from place to place 
and to her surprise, sought in vain for a home for her little 
one. 

^^No children here!” 

wouldn’t have a baby in the house !” 

^^The landlord would not allow it!” 

“I am afraid it might cry!” 

^^Children are too great a nuisance!” 
baby! — not much!” 

“If I took a baby in, every family in the building would 
move out.” 

Such were the answers that Mary received at nearly every 
house where she called and she began to wonder where all the 
men and women came from if so many people had so little 
use for babies in their homes. 

Some asked for references, some said, “how can I tell that 
you are a decent girl?” while others asked “where was her 
husband?” or why she did not “apply to her friends.” And 
throughout that day, no compassion, no pity was extended 
to her and as the night came she grew tired and lost heart. 


304 


LIFE. 


When nearly dark, one woman, who seemed a little kinder 
than the rest, offered to “keep them for one night only,” in 
return for an exorbitant sum, providing she would promise 
faithfully to keep the baby still, with the distinct under- 
standing that if it made a noise, she would be required to 
leave. And so Mary passed her first night in sleepless worri- 
ment for fear the little one might cry. 

In the morning, she begged the woman to keep Her baby 
for a few hours while she went out alone to seek a home for 
it. The woman looked at her suspiciously and answered: 

“No, you might not return.” 

“Oh, but I assure you I will,” Mary replied. “No mother 
could be so heartless as to leave her baby in such a cruel 
manner.” 

“Lots do,” snapped the woman. 

“Oh, I cannot believe you. No mother could forget her 
child.” 

The woman laughed at Mary’s answer. 

“I reckon you must be from the country,” she replied; 
“leastwise, you are pretty green on matters of that kind 
that are always coming up in city life. Why, never a day 
passes in New York but some woman leaves her offspring on 
a doorstep, in some hallway, in a railway depot, or a store, 
or with some unsuspecting woman who never dreamed that 
the mother would not come back.” 

And Mary went away, realizing that there were other 
women in this world who suffered the same heartaches as 
herself, — women who had been forsaken by the men to whom 
they had surrendered all. 

The greater part of the second day was but a repetition of 
the first. During the afternoon, she applied to a midwife, 
who offered to take care of the baby, but who insisted upon 
security for at least a month’s hoard in advance. 

This Mary was unprepared to give. 

She had scarcely any money, only a very small part of the 
little sum she possessed when she left Julian’s house, eight 
months before. 


LIFE. 


305 


She assured the woman that she would find work and be 
able to pay her regularly the small amount she asked, but 
promises and pleadings were useless. The woman absolutely 
refused to take the child upon any other terms. 

“Why not take it to a foundling’s home?” she asked. 

And Mary obtained from her a list of such institutions, 
determined only to use it as a last resort when all other 
chances failed. 

She had eaten very little, only enough to sustain life, for 
she knew that her money could last but another day at the 
most. She was very tired and wandered into Central Park 
and sat down on one of the benches to rest. 

Mothers with their children, nurses with infants were all 
around her and she could not fail to contrast their happiness 
with her own misery. 

Again she thought how very different all would have been 
had Wilfrid never come to Julian’s house, and the bright 
visions that came to her seemed to fill her weary soul with 
gladness and she closed her eyes and fell fast asleep. 

An old lady, with stern, hard features, soon aroused her. 

Aren’t you ashamed,” she said, shaking Mary a great deal 
harder than was necessary, “to be sleeping here in broad 
daylight with a baby in your arms ? Whose is it ?” 

“Mine,” replied the girl. 

“Then more shame to you. Why don’t you go to bed at 
proper times as Christian people do? Then you would get 
your proper rest and would not be sleeping here in such a 
heartless, wicked manner.” 

The little one began to cry. 

Mary rose and nursed the child from her own fast-failing 
strength and moved wearily away. 

“If she only knew!” she thought. 

Later in the afternoon, the sun became hidden by great 
dark clouds, an unpleasant dampness pervaded the atmo- 
sphere, the weather grew cold and at seven o’clock it begau 
to rain. 

Mary had quickened her steps and had diligently called at 


306 


LIFE. 


every house she had passed where a sign of ^^rooms for rent’’ 
was displayed. But none would receive her and take the 
daily responsibility of the care of the child while Mary 
should be at work. 

She was growing thoroughly discouraged when the softly 
swelling chords of a church organ rose upon the air. It 
sounded to the poor wanderer like a heavenly invitation to 
enter and find peace. “Come unto me all ye that are weary 
and heavy laden and I will give you rest.” It was the very 
text from which Julian had preached on that fatal Sunday 
morning when her father had died at sea. “Suffer little 
children to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such 
is the kingdom of heaven,” again seemed to be mingled with 
those full, round notes that floated on the evening air. She 
remembered how many times Julian had uttered these in the 
Mission. Surely in God’s temple she would find some good 
Christian soul who would give her shelter in her hour of 
need; for Christ came into the world “to give light to them 
that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our 
feet into the way of peace.” And if any poor soul ever 
needed guiding into the way of peace, it was Mary. 

She started to enter the church. Many well-dressed people 
passed her and recognizing her misery, shuddered. She 
paused at the doorway, undecided whether to go in or to 
turn back. Then she remembered the Master’s words, “I 
came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.” 

She entered. The ushers looked first at her pale face, at 
her plain, damp clothing, at the baby in her arms and then 
at each other. Many of the fashionable set entered and were 
conducted to seats well up in the centre of the church, but 
Mary was left standing until the ushers, who had charge of 
the seats in God’s temple, had held a whispered conversation 
among themselves as to what they should do with her. 
Finally, she was shown to a pew at the extreme end of the 
church. It was a mid-week praise service and the rich were 
giving praise to the Almighty for His bountiful goodness, 
and thanking Him that they were not as other men. — 


LIFE. 


307 


And Mary was placed far from them, — because she was poor! 
Thus the parable of the Pharisee and the publican was again 
enacted as it ever has been and will be in the very temples 
set apart for the worship of that Holy One, who commanded 
the ^^rich to sell all that they had and give unto the poor,” 
who preached of the dangers of riches and declared that ‘‘he 
that exalteth himself shall be abased.” 

Mary was a strange sight to many who had assembled 
there and when service was over, a number of ladies gathered 
round her. Now, these ladies prided themselves upon their 
deeds of charity, and, forgetful of their Masters injunction, 
“let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth,” 
always gave their alms with much ostentation and in the 
sight of others, so that they might receive the admiring 
glances of the community and the full benefit of the glory. 

“Child, what are you doing he-ah?” asked one lady, who 
was magnificently gowned and in whose ears sparkled costly 
gems. She spoke in an affected drawl and surveyed Mary 
through a gold lorgnette, bestowing upon her a look of such 
haughtiness and superiority that the poor girl felt altogether 
out of place. 

“Do you not know better than to come to church with a 
baby who might cry and disturb the service?” asked another 
old thing. She was unworthy of the name of woman; she 
had an enameled face which she had bought in Paris, being 
dissatisfied with the one God had given her. 

“If you belong to any church, it must be one entirely out- 
side of our district,” simpered a third human biped. She 
had a wizened face, black eyebrows and hair of Titian red 
which was white near the roots because she had been too lazy 
to apply the dye as regularly as was her custom. 

“I am the chairwoman of the charity society of this 
church and it is always ready to assist those who are deserv- 
ing; arnT we, ladies?” said a fourth, affecting a kind tone 
and a soft smile, but her manner was so unnatural, that even 
the sound of her voice grated harshly upon the sufferer^s 


ears. 


308 


LIFE. 


“Of course we are!’’ chimed all of the women, in a chorus. 

“Are you seeking for alms ?” asked a fifth in a patronizing 
way. 

“Because, if you are, you really do not know how delighted 
we will he to help you,” declared another with a voice of 
mocking insincerity. 

“I heard the organ and I came in, not looking for charity, 
but seeking forgiveness for my sins before God and to ask 
Him to aid me I” replied Mary. 

“Dear me! How strangely you talk!” cried the woman 
with the painted face. 

“Child, whe-ah is your-ah home?” questioned the haughty 
lady with the lorgnette. 

“I have none,” replied Mary simply. 

“No home? Well, ladies, here is a chance for real Chris- 
tian charity,” giggled the woman with the enameled face. 

“Yes, come ladies, open your purses,” said the chairwoman 
and then she called loudly to a party of gentlemen, who, at 
the other end of the church were discussing with the minis- 
ter, the state of the money market and the best investments 
in stocks and bonds, “come, gentlemen, I am going to call 
upon you, too, to help a poor girl who has a little baby and 
no home.” 

“Is your husband dead ?” asked the lady of the patronizing 
manner. 

“I have no husband!” sobbed Mary. 

“No husband!” 

The exclamation came from the lips of all the ladies in 
horrified unison. The chairwoman of the charity society 
closed her purse. 

“Oh, de-ah! The woman’s presence is a positive stain 
upon a hitherto sinless church! Ladies, we disgrace our- 
selves by conversing with her further!” declared the well- 
gowned woman with the affected drawl. 

“Is he dead? Or do you mean that you never had a hus- 
band?” questioned a cold-hearted, bony, dried-up spinster. 


LIFE. 


309 


who had bestowed withering glances upon Mary, but who 
had not spoken before. 

“I have never had a husband!” moaned Mary. 

“Shocking I She should be in the penitentiary, and not in 
the house of God!” declared the creature with the enameled 
face. 

“Oh, you wicked, shameless outcast ! To think that you 
should dare to come here and try to arouse sympathy from 
us!” cried the woman with the dyed hair; and she drew her 
skirts about her as if dreading contamination from the piti- 
ful object to whom a kind word would have sounded like a 
voice from heaven. 

“Let us go, ladies! And, janitor, you will put out the 
lights and show this creature into the streets where she be- 
longs!” said the charity society’s chairwoman. 

The women departed in a body, the minister and the men 
who had been discussing finances, pretending not to hear 
when the call for charity had been made upon them, had 
already sauntered out and Mary, with her child and the jani- 
tor, were left alone. 

Mary tottered to the center aisle, then, facing the altar, 
she fell upon her knees and prayed. 

“Oh, merciful God and Heavenly Father, who hast taught 
us in thy holy word that thou dost not willingly afilict or 
grieve the children of men; look with pity, I beseech thee, 
upon the sorrows of me, thy servant. In thy wisdom, thou 
hast seen fit to visit me with troubles and to bring distress 
upon me. Kemember me, oh. Lord, in mercy; sanctify thy 
fatherly correction to me ; endue my soul with patience under 
my affliction and with resignation to thy blessed will; com- 
fort me with a sense of thy goodness ; lift up thy countenance 
upon me and give me peace; and give thy Holy Spirit to the 
infant, that he may be born again. And grant that all sin- 
ful affections may die in him and that all things belonging 
to the Spirit may live and grow in him, that he may have 
power and strength to have victory and to triumph against 


310 


LIFE. 


the devil, the world, and the flesh; through Jesus Christ, our 
Lord, Amen.” 

The janitor stood behind her with bowed head and tears 
were falling from his eyes upon the polished marble floor. 

“I am an old man,” he said, haven^t much money, for 
I am poorly paid for my services here, but if you will accept 
such accomodation as I can offer you, I will see that you and 
your child are lodged safely for the night.” 

God bless you!” said Mary. ^‘He will reward you, I can- 
not.” 

And that Father ^Vho seeth in secret” and rewardeth 
openly, must have smiled at the poor man, who “out of his 
penury cast in all the living that he had.” 

And Mary went with the old man to his humble basement 
lodgings, which consisted only of two rooms, and Mary and 
the child occupied the single bed-chamber, while the man 
made for himself a bed upon the kitchen floor. 

She passed another almost sleepless night; the faces of the 
ladies of the charitable (?) society continually haunted her, 
they had been so cruel and unkind. God had sent His only 
begotten Son into this world to save sinners like herself, and 
in a temple consecrated to Him, she had not expected to be 
treated thus. They had called her wicked, a shameless out- 
cast, and had said that the house of God was no place for 
her, that she belonged upon the streets. The faces of all 
men and women were turned against her, repentance, con- 
trition, the resolve to do her duty and lead a better life 
seemed useless. Turn where she would no hand was raised 
to help her. She was beginning to give up hope, extreme 
despair was destroying her courage and utter hopelessness 
was burning her brain. 

When thoughts of Julian came to her, she dismissed them. 
He was too good and no longer in her life. 

“Wilfrid, Wilfrid, Wilfrid!” she would cry, “why does not 
God in his anger send down his lightning to crush you for 
making me suffer? The burden is too heavy for me alone! 
You should be here! You, suffering with me and acknowl- 


LIFE. 


311 


edging me as your wife and this child as your own in the 
sight of heaven and before these people who turn me from 
their doors as a thing unworthy and unclean!” 

Then she would look at the child and again in its features 
she would see Wilfrid’s face and would turn from it in 
loathing and hatred. Its baby eyes seemed to be mocking 
her and in its smile she could see Wilfrid laughing at her 
with scorn and derision. And its little fingers seemed to 
point at her as if to say, “you have brought me into this 
world of sin where I have no father, and as I grow to man- 
hood people will turn their back upon me and despise me, 
and it is your fault, you the outcast mother, whom I shall 
curse, not only in this world, but through all eternity.” 

When daylight came she could bear such thoughts no 
longer. She knew that madness was fast taking the place 
of reason and despair. 

She arose and dressed very quietly so as not to arouse the 
man who had so kindly sheltered her. Then, taking her baby 
in her arms, she left the house, determined to call at the 
different foundlings’ homes, the list of which had been given 
her by the midwife the day before. 

She would leave the child in one of these institutions, 
then he would no longer point the finger of scorn at his un- 
happy mother and she would no more be reminded of Wil- 
frid’s smiling face. 

The rain storm of the night before still continued. She 
took off her cloak and wrapped it around the child so as to 
keep it comfortable and warm. The rain saturated her thin 
clothing and chilled her to the bone. Her shoes were wet 
and dripping; mud bespattered her skirts and the very ele- 
ments seemed to conspire against her to increase her abject 
misery. But heedless of all, she trudged on, seeking to save 
and yet anxious to see the last of her innocent babe, the 
silent reminder and dread accuser of her shame and downfall. 

But, one by one, she was turned away by the matrons 
from the very institutions upon whose charity she had placed 
her last earthly hope. 


312 


LIFE. 


^‘Too full,” some said. 

never take children from their mothers; only those 
who have been abandoned are allowed to enter here,” said 
another. 

“You had better apply to the police,” another cried. 

Who can wonder that her brain gave way? That mad- 
ness, born of despair, robbed her of her senses, disordered 
her intellect and made of her a demented, crazed, unreason- 
ing being, who knew not where she went or what she did? 

She thought of the story the watchman had told her on 
the day of the children’s picnic, of the abandoned woman 
who had drowned her child and tried to end her own life in 
the reservoir of Central Park. It had affected her deeply 
then, it came back with lifelike fidelity to her frenzied brain 
now. The reservoir was very near. She had passed it that 
morning while crossing from one side of the city to the 
other. The place attracted her, she knew not why, but she 
seemed to be irresistibly drawn towards it. She realized its 
danger and tried to go in an opposite direction, but under 
the spell of some uncontrollable emotion she found herself 
hastening, almost running, to the fearful spot. 

The storm had increased in fury. The park was deserted. 
While passing the Belvedere, a sparrow hawk flew screeching 
over her head and she thought of her conversation with little 
Ned in that very place, fifteen months before. 

“Birds and beasts of prey are everywhere, on land, in sea 
and sky and the big ones are all seeking the destruction of 
the little ones.” 

She was little then, but since, the beasts of prey had found 
her out and ruined her life entirely. Ned had said that she 
was safe because she was an angel. Ah, how little had he 
guessed that the angel might fall when tempted. 

Just beyond the Belvedere she saw, or thought she saw, the 
old watchman, heedless of the rain, standing in her path, as 
if he sought to prevent her from going forward. She im- 
agined that he was laughing at her and that he said : 

“I told you, didn’t I, that the majority of our young men 


LIFE. 


313 


think it rare sport to wreck a girFs life? You would not 
listen to me. You refused to heed niy warning and now you 
have come with your babe, — as other women have done — and 
will drown it in the black waters and send your soul and 
your child’s into a pitiless and everlasting hell, from which 
there is no rescue.” 

“No, no,” she cried, “if I drown my child it will be to 
save him from that hell from which there is no dragging 
me! I shall burn in a lake of fire eternally, forever, — and so 
would he if he were to live, for then he would be like his 
father — ” 

In the distance she thought she saw a soldier on horseback, 
riding towards her. 

“But if he dies now, he will be without sin and will go 
straight to that heaven which his mother can never enter.” 

She screamed wildly. 

“Ah, you told me that he would not come, but you lied 
to me, — see — there he is, Wilfrid on his horse! And he is 
coming here for me and for his child! Wilfrid! Wilfrid!” 
she cried, “they all said that you were false and that you 
had forgotten — Oh, you don’t know how I have suffered, but 
all shall be forgotten now, for you have come to take me to 
your heart !” 

She tried to pass the watchman, but he appeared to stand 
in her way; she struck at him, but her hand passed through 
the shadow that she saw; she would have struggled with him, 
but there was nothing there and she rushed on through the 
vision of the watchman to the phantom horseman farther 
down the path. 

“I am coming, Wilfrid,” she was crying, “the little Mary, 
whom you used to love, and we will be married, won’t we, 
dear? And see, here is your little child, — Wilfrid I have 
called him, for he is so like you.” 

She stood still, — the horse appeared to be rearing and 
tossing, as if afraid to come forward and its rider was 
laughing at her, and she knelt in the pathway in front of 
him and held out the child that he might see its baby face. 


314 


LIFE. 


but he whipped it up and rode over her, and though the hoofs 
of the animal beat against her and trampled on her, yet she 
could feel no pain. 

Then she stood up and looked for him, but the horse and 
rider were gone and she was alone! 

The child began to cry. She wrapped her cloak tighter 
around its little head so that she might not hear its voice 
and hastened on to the corner of the wall, where she had sat 
that day with Julian, when he had picked the flower for her 
and likened it unto a human life, which, when its beauty 
was gone was cast by the wayside to die. 

She clambered over the wall, crossed the narrow path and 
stooping over the picket fence which surrounded the reser- 
voir, placed the little one on the grassy bank on the other 
side. She was about to follow when the baby, struggling to 
free himself from the cloak, which was so tightly wrapped 
around his little head, rolled over the sloping embankment 
and fell with a splash into the dark waters below. 

And the vision of Wilfrid on horseback appeared again, — 
he was galloping across the water and coming towards her. 
She felt a strong hand upon her shoulder, holding her tight- 
ly so that she could not move. She turned, the old watchman 
was there again. She struck at him, but her hands no longer 
passed through nothingness. She encountered real flesh and 
blood. And Wilfrid’s horse was again trampling over her 
and heating his iron hoofs into her brain. 

With one terrible scream she fell seemingly lifeless at the 
watchman’s feet. 

********** 

There are eleven hours difference between the time in New 
York and Manila, and the events of this chapter occurred at 
the hour that Wilfrid rode home from the ball in that far-off 
land, when he encountered the ghost of the woman, the vision 
that had affected him so strangely. 

****** **** 


LIFE. 


316 


When 'Mary opened her eyes, she was still lying where 
she had fallen. The watchman and the two policemen were 
bending over her and little Wilfrid, dead, lay on the grass 
beside her. 


CHAPTER XXXT. 


JULIAN AND MARY FACE TO FACE. 

Give sorrow words ; the grief that does not speak 
Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break. 

— Shakespeare. 

At three o’clock the next morning the residents of the 
little east-side parsonage were awakened by a violent ringing 
of the front door bell and a lond rapping upon the door. 

Aunt Betsy threw open the bedroom window and poking 
her night-capped head on the outside, cried out loudly: 

“What’s h’up? Is it thieves, burglars, ’ouse robbers or 
what ?” 

The familiar voice of the Major answered her from the 
sidewalk below. 

“Where is Julian,” he asked, anxiously. “For God’s sake. 
Aunt Betsy, don’t delay for a single moment. Wake him up 
at once.” 

“Is that you. Major,” questioned the minister, who had 
just raised the window of his own room. “What in the world 
brings you here at such an hour?” 

“Jule, don’t stop to dress, but come down at once; hell’s 
loose, old man — it’s awful,” replied the Major, in a voice 
trembling with emotion. 

A moment later, Julian, attired only in his pajamas, 
opened the front door and admitted his friend. 

“Major, you are as white as a ghost,” he said, as the light 
from the street lamp revealed to him the pallor depicted upon 
his friend’s usually roseate countenance. “Come into my 
study, old fellow,” he continued, closing the street door and 
leading the way into the library. “Just wait until I throw 


LIFE. 


317 


a bath robe over me and you shall tell me all that has hap- 
pened. 

He lit the gas, and was about to ask the Major to sit down, 
but the look of horror on his face startled him. 

^‘Major, what is the matter,” he cried. ‘‘I never before 
saw you look so pale. Are you ill? Is anyone dead?” 

The Major shook his head. His lips moved, but he did not 
speak. 

^^Come, old fellow, tell me all,” said Julian, kindly. “If 
it is some affliction or illness, or the death of a relative or 
friend, perhaps I may administer consolation and bid you 
hope.” 

“Jule, there are afflictions in this world far worse than ill- 
ness, and some things more terrible than death,” replied the 
Major, solemnly. 

“What has happened. Major? Man, don’t stand there star- 
ing at me like that. Speak out and tell me what it is,” cried 
Julian in alarm. 

But for answer the Major only looked at him in silence; 
infinite compassion and immeasurable pity were upon his 
countenance and Julian realized that the news which the 
Major brought concerned him personally, and he knew the 
blow he was about to receive must be terrible, indeed. 

And thus the two men gazed at each other, while the little 
clock upon the mantle-piece ticked as it had done the last 
time Julian and Mary conversed in this very room, and its 
ticking seemed to whisper to Julian — Ma-ry-Ma-ry-Mary ! 
Its sound was now wierd and ghostlike, and a deathly pallor 
overspread the face of its owner, and his fingers twitched, 
his muscles quivered and every nerve within him seemed to 
quake as looking into the Major’s eyes, he whispered: 

“Mary.” 

But the Major did not reply. He hung his head, fearing 
to look into the face of his friend, whose undying love for 
the poor unfortunate had revealed itself in the surpassing 
tenderness with which he had breathed her name. 

“Something concerning Mary has brought you here, I 


318 


LIFE. 


know,” continued Julian in broken tones, “and you have said 
it is worse than illness, and more terrible than death. Oh, 
man, for the love of heaven, speak and let me know the 
truth.” 

“She was arrested by the police — ” 

Julian thought he had nerved himself for the worst, but 
the effect produced by the Major’s words so unmanned him 
that he would have fallen had not his friend caught him in 
his strong arms. 

“Old man, don’t give way like that,” said the newspaper 
man, tenderly. “Excess of grief can never heal a wound 
like yours.” 

Very gently he led the minister to his great easy chair and 
placed him in it; his head sank listlessly upon his arm by 
the side of the desk. The Major placed his hand upon the 
shoulder of his friend, and his touch expressed a silent 
sympathy more eloquent than words. 

“What charge has been placed against my ward,” asked 
J ulian, a few minutes later. 

“Infanticide,” the Major answered. 

“Infanticide !” 

The look upon Julian’s face was almost ghastly, and his 
voice weirdly unnatural as he echoed the words spoken by 
his friend. “Whose child,” he asked after another painful 
silence. 

“Her own,” replied the Major. 

“Then she was married? — ” 

“No, the child was illegitimate.” 

Neither of the men had noticed Aunt Betsy, who had en- 
tered the room a few minutes before, and had remained near 
the doorway, a silent and wondering listener. 

“Oh, the h’ungrateful ’ussy! The h’unnatural h’ingrate! 
The shameless wanton” — she began. 

Julian rose to his feet; as he turned toward his house- 
keeper she saw the look of pain upon Kis face, and the words 
of denunciation died upon her lips. 

“Aunt Betsy, Mary was and still is my ward, and I shall 


LIFE. 


319 


not hear a word against her,” he began. “She was entrusted 
to my care by her dying father, and if she has sinned, I shall 
do my duty and help her in every manner possible.” 

He felt the Major’s hand softly steal upon his own and 
press it hard. 

“Would you ’elp ’er after such disgrace?” questioned the 
old lady, a strangely sorrowful and puzling expression upon 
her kindly face. 

“Betsy, the Master came into this world to save sinners,” 
Julian replied, “and my poor life has been spent in trying to 
follow in His steps. We all remember the words He spoke 
when the Scribes and the Pharisees brought unto Him the 
unfortunate Magdalene. ‘He that is without sin among ye, 
let him cast the first stone.’ If He forgave and bade the 
erring ‘go and sin no more,’ shall we, who must confess our 
own weakness, presume to censure Mary? We know not 
how sorely she may have been tempted, and until we do, we 
will not attempt to judge her.” 

“P’r’aps you are right — and yet it seems so ’ard to think 
as ’ow the girl has growed to woman’ood only to bite the ’and 
as fed ’er,” asserted the old lady. 

“Aunt Betsy, I will not listen,” began Julian with a dis- 
approving frown. 

“Oh, I must ’ave my say,” interrupted that lady, “and as 
you know, I am not the one to ’int a fault and ’esitate dis- 
like, for I alw’ys loved Mary h’almost like my own flesh an’ 
blood — but I felt as ’ow she wasn’t quite worthy of ’alf of 
the love that you always wasted h’on ’er.” 

“Major, I think you will understand me when I say that 
I am in duty bound to assist Mary in her hour of trouble,” 
said Julian, turning to his friend. “You say that she has 
been arrested. Where is she confined?” 

“In the Arsenal, in Central Park.” 

“Can we see her?” 

“Beyond a doubt.” 

“Even at so strange an hour as this ?” 


320 


LIFE. 


“Yes, Julian, a newspaper man and a minister would be 
admitted at any hour in any of the city prisons.” 

* * * * * * * * * * 

One hour later found Julian and the Major in the room 
of the matron of the Arsenal detention prison in Central 
Park. 

“This is one of the strangest cases that ever has come un- 
der my observation,” that lady was saying. “I am sure that 
the girl is not obdurately wicked, for twice when she did not 
see me I have found her upon her knees in silent prayer, but 
she will speak to no one concerning the motive for her crime, 
and I do not believe that she realizes the enormity of the 
fearful act of which she has been guilty.” 

“Do you think she is in full possession of her senses?” 
questioned Julian. 

“No one could ever make me believe that a sane mother 
would even dream of murdering her innocent offspring,” 
answered the matron. “Insanity, caused by some great men- 
tal shock, alone could prompt such an unnatural crime.” 
Then, changing her tone and looking sharply at the minister, 
she added: “You said you knew the young woman, I believe.” 

“Yes,” he replied. 

“Her husband, too, maybe,” she asked, pointedly. 

Julian shook his head. 

“Her parents, then?” 

“She is an orphan,” he answered. 

“Has she brothers, sisters or relatives ?” 

“She has none. Her dying father left her in my care.” 

“In yours ?” exclaimed the matron. 

Her grey eyes flashed as she spoke the words; her stern 
face assumed a cynical expression, and her little ferret-like 
eyes seemed to be trying to pierce their way into Julianas 
inmost soul. 

“In mine,” he replied, not looking at his eager questioner, 
“and that is why I am here to see if I can aid her now in 
this her hour of trouble. I do not believe that in all this 


LIFE. 


321 


world she has another friend to whom she could appeal at 
such a time as this.” 

The matron grew even more interested. 

After her father’s death, did she reside beneath your 
roof?” she asked. 

“Yes, until eight months ago. Since that time, although 
I have searched for her eagerly and often, I have been unable 
to find her,” answered Julian. 

A smile, in which self-satisfaction and contempt for the 
minister were equally expressed, crossed the face of the 
matron. 

The Major was quick to notice it, and in an instant he 
realized the suspicions of the woman. 

“Be careful,” he said, coming closer to his friend. 

“Yes, gentlemen of his cloth should be careful,” added the 
matron in a dry, cutting manner. “I have seen many simi- 
lar cases, and will go now and see if the suffering one will 
consent to interview the saint, into whose care her dying 
father entrusted the welfare and honor of her future life.” 

With a supercilious look of contempt she glanced again at 
Julian and left the room. 

Julian looked inquiringly at the Major. He felt dazed, as 
one in a dream. His mind had been running over scenes of 
the past, and he was only now beginning to realize the infer- 
ence of the woman’s words. 

“Do you know what you have been saying?” asked his 
friend. 

“The truth,” he replied. 

“Yes, but you have told the truth in a manner which im- 
plied that you were the cause of Mary’s downfall — ” 

“I—?” 

Julian’s face blanched. His nerveless fingers caught at 
the back of a chair for support. 

“I — I — ” he gasped. 

“Yes, as truly as you are standing there, that woman be- 


ll 


322 


LIFE. 


lieves you, through your own words, to be the father of the 
child.” 

“As if in corroboration of the truth of the Major’s state- 
ment, the shrill voice of the matron was heard in the adjoin- 
ing apartment. 

“He has come for you, my child,” she was saying. “The 
man who wronged you. They don’t always come when their 
victims call them, so he can’t be wholly bad. You must see 
him, for he looks very pale and ill. This act of yours has 
made him suffer, and I am sure he will do all within his 
power to help you.” 

The next moment the door opened and Mary and Julian 
stood face to face. 

Only a few short months had passed since they had met 
before, but what withering blight the moth and rust and 
heartaches of those weary months had brought to both. 

To Mary, Julian’s pale, anxious face seemed to be years 
older, and she knew that she had caused the change. 

To Julian, Mary seemed but a wan and feeble shadow of 
her former self. The once trusting, happy smile had gone, 
and in its place mental suffering and pain had left their 
mark. The great blue eyes that had been won’t to sparkle 
with delight were heavy laden, lustreless and torture-torn, 
the innocent and pleasant face was woe-begone, stricken, 
crushed with the misery of grief that weighed upon her 
heart. The pleasant form had become pinched and bent. 
She had drained the cup of misery to the dregs, yet as he 
gazed upon that sad and careworn face, his heart still leaped 
with fond desire to help and aid the poor lost Mary who once 
had been the angel of his Mission. 

Tears filled his eyes. He almost tottered to the open door- 
way, in which Mary remained pale, crest-fallen and abashed, 
her very heart sinking within her. 

“Mary,” he said very softly, and his arms were open and 
outstretched, as if inviting her to come to him with all her 
sin and her trouble, and thus he stood as if upon his own 
poor broken heart she might find rest and peace, and still she 


LIFE. 


323 


moved not, her eyes gazed piteously upon him, great sobs 
choked her utterance, and she could not — dared not speak. 

“Is this the man demanded the stern voice of the matron 
after a few moments of unbroken silence. 

“No — no — no,’’ she cried as if awakening from a dream. 
“It is shameful, wicked to even cast upon him the suspicion 
of my sin. He is the best, the noblest man God ever made, 
and the thought that I have caused him a single moment’s 
suffering drives me wild with despair. Oh, God, why did 
they not let me die, too? It would have been better so — 
better that my soul were burning now in hell than to be 
tortured thus. Why have you come?” she shouted almost 
defiantly at Julian. “You, of all men, should not be here. 
Leave me, to bear my sorrow and shame alone.” 

“Mary, no matter what you have done, I shall do all that 
lies within the power of man to help you,” replied Julian, 
kindiy. 

“I refuse your help — ^your kindness,” she declared. “I 
wish to suffer as I should, and must, and shall. Your pres- 
ence only aggravates my misery. Go, leave me — go.” 

“You say that this is not the man who caused your down- 
fall,” again demanded the matron. 

“It is not the man,” she answered, firmly. Then, turning 
to Julian, she continued: “Can’t you see the suspicion that 
is being placed on you on account of your coming here? It 
only adds weight to my misery. Go, if you would befriend 
me, and never let us meet again.” 

“The man who wrecked your life and brought you here 
should be made, as far as possible, to share your shame,” 
replied Julian. “Tell me his name.” 

“Yes, his name,” questioned the matron, glancing from the 
girl to the minister, and anxiously watching the changing 
expression on the face of each. 

“Do you, of all men, really seek to know?” asked Mary 
timidly, her face growing even paler than before. 

“Yes,” he answered, eagerly; “and once I know it, I prom- 
ise you that the man shall do you justice.” 


324 


LIFE. 


^‘Justice! You shall never harm him, and neither you 
nor anyone else shall ever hear his name spoken by my lips,’^ 
declared 'Mary, with firm determination. 

“Would you defend him after his cowardly desertion?” 
asked Julian in surprise. 

“Yes,” she answered. “I loved him then, I love him now, 
and although I despair of ever seeing his face again, his 
name shall remain a secret, and it shall be buried in the 
grave beside me. Seek not to know him, and leave me to 
my fate — it is a little boon, but all I ask.” 

She turned and went back into the ward-room, without 
thanking him for his visit and without even saying good- 
bye. 

“The interview is ended?” questioned the matron, with a 
smile. 

Julian bowed his head in assent. 

“The good people of your parish will be spared a scandal,” 
she announced with a cunning smile, as she opened the door 
for the two visitors to go, and after they had passed out she 
continued to herself: “That wolf in sheep’s clothing will 
now return to his home, and sleep in the quiet and certain 
satisfaction of knowing that the poor girl will die, rather 
than betray him.” 

Her occupation had caused her to grow callous to ordinary 
criminals, and although she felt little pity for the prisoner 
she really conjured up a special dislike for Julian, whom she 
regarded as a monument of hypocrisy. Therefore, she re- 
solved to use special efforts to learn the secrets of the girl, 
and unmask, if possible, “the devil’s minister,” a cognomen 
which she really believed belonged to the goodly man who 
had just left her. 

When Julian and the Major reached the outside of the 
Arsenal, the stars were fast disappearing and the dawn of 
another day could be seen in the eastern sky. 

Julian sat wearily on one of the park benches, and for 
some moments seemed lost in thought. 


LIFE. 


326 


When he arose, his step seemed steadier, his face brighter 
and his demeanor had entirely changed. 

‘^Jule, what are you going to do?” questioned his friend, 
shall, as her attorney, defend her at the trial. It may 
be a hard battle, but I’ll save her if I can,” he answered. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER. 

Thus brother has fought brother, 

Ever since the world began ; 

And so it will continue, 

Until man becomes a man. 

— Willis McFarlane. 

“I hold the prisoner on the charge of murder and com- 
mit her to the Tombs to await the action of the Grand 
Jury,” was the grave pronouncement of the police magis- 
trate, three days later, when Mary appeared for preliminary 
examination in the Fifty-fourth Street Court, just west of 
Eighth avenue. : 

Although the charge against her was the heinous one of 
the murder of her infant child, throughout the entire hearing 
Mary St. John had uttered no word. Of all the throng in 
the crowded court room, she had betrayed the least interest 
in her fate. 

Previous to and during the hearing she had refused to 
speak to Julian, who voluntarily acted as attorney in her 
defense. 

It was a strange case, and the strangest thing of all was 
the central figure in it. 

**** ****** 

^^She is shamming insanity,” some of those present know- 
ingly declared. 

‘‘The girl is entirely lost to all sense of shame,” thought 
many others. 

“Undoubtedly a victim of heredity,” whispered many of 
the wise ones. 

“Altogether undeserving of pity and meriting her fate,” 
was the opinion of many. 


LIFE. 


327 


And few thought to even blame or censure the man who 
had been the primary cause of Mary’s ruin. Society, the law 
and mankind in general, declare that only the woman shall 
suffer in such cases for a dual sin. For the sake of the pur- 
ity of our homes and the honor of our children, let us hope 
that futurity will welcome a new Daniel who shall come to 
judgment with the courage to demand that sinning man shall 
suffer equally with weaker woman. 

The examination was brief, only two witnesses being called 
upon to testify. 

The one-armed watchman of the reservoir described how 
the prisoner had placed her infant over the fence and then 
dropped it into the water, and the matron of the Arsenal 
told of the later moods of the girl while under her charge 
in the prison. 

^^Were her actions rational when she was first placed in 
your care?” questioned the assistant district attorney who 
had been assigned to the case. 

^^She seemed then, as now, under a great mental strain, 
and at all times refused to answer all questions put to her,” 
replied the woman. 

“Have you learned nothing from her concerning the 
crime?” he asked. 

“As I have said, she at all times refused to answer ques- 
tions,” again declared the woman, “but I have heard her 
talk at random in her sleep,” she added. 

“Of her infant?” questioned the attorney. 

“Yes,” answered the matron. 

“Please tell the court the subject of her ramblings.” 

Julian was upon his feet in an instant. 

“Your honor, I object,” he said, addressing the magis- 
trate. “What the prisoner might have said whilst sleeping 
should not be admitted as evidence in so serious a case as 
this.” 

“Hot as direct evidence,” announced the magistrate, “yet 
it might have some bearing upon future developments which 
would tend to show extenuating circumstances which would 


328 


LIFE. 


prove of inestimable benefit to the prisoner. I will admit 
the evidence.^’ 

“You may answer the question, madame,” prompted the 
assistant district attorney. 

“She spoke often of her poverty, suffering and desertion, 
and called upon the man who caused her downfall,” said the 
witness. 

“Did she mention his name?” questioned the magistrate. 

“Only his Christian name, your Honor,” announced the 
/ witness. 

“And that name?” 

It was the only instant that Mary betrayed any interest 
in her surroundings. She glanced eagerly toward Julian. 

A moment later the matron had repeated the name of — 

‘'Wilfndr 

A loud cry escaped from Julianas lips. 

Court officials and lawyers turned in his direction with 
excitement. 

The minister and attorney for the defense had fainted. 

The prosecution rested its case. 

The magistrate pronounced the finding of the court, the 
prisoner was taken to her cell, the witness whose testimony 
had causd such commotion went out into the street, proud 
in the satisfaction that she had done her duty and unmasked 
a scoundrel, and the court room was cleared with due dec- 
orum. 

When Julian opened his eyes a physician and the Major 
stood beside him. 

“Wilfrid,” he gasped, and tried to rise to his feet, but 
the strain upon his mind had been too great, and he again 
fell senseless into the arms of his attendants. 

The Major looked on anxiously as the physician care- 
fully examined the heart of his friend. 

“Any immediate danger,” he asked when that gentleman 
had finished. 

“I think not,” replied the doctor. “He has suffered from 
a serious attack of apoplexy, induced by over excitement and 


LIFE. 


329 


sudden emotion. With plenty of rest, no worriment and 
good nursing, he’ll pull through, I fancy.” 

Later in the day Julian was driven to the Mission, where 
tender hearts and willing hands administered to his wants, 
and though for many weeks he lingered between life and 
death, health at last returned. But happiness had gone 
from him, for his heart was bleeding from a wound which 
time could never heal, and the blow that caused the pain had 
been dealt by his own brother, Wilfrid. 


CHAPTEK XXXIII. 


‘^THE RING ASUNDER BROKE.” 

“Had we never loved sae kindly, 

Had we never loved sae blindly, 

Never met — or never parted, 

We had ne’er been broken-hearted.’’ 

— Robert Burns. 

It was a miserable dark day that followed the ride to 
San Miguel. The fast-falling rain drops coursed in a quick 
succession of tiny rivers down the window panes of the big 
room where little over a month ago we saw Angela and 
Nan, radiantly happy, dressing for their first ball. It seemed 
as if heaven itself wept for the change. 

There was no storm — it had raged itself weary long ago; 
now the sky was only gray and wet and infinitely sad. 

Angela stood at one of the windows, gazing with hope- 
less, tearless eyes on the dreariness without, so in keeping 
with the desolateness of the heart within her. 

“Come, Angie, dear, do drink some of this tea; it will 
make you feel better, and I made it for you myself,” pleaded 
Nan, who had postponed her departure for the States and 
remained to comfort her friend in her sore need. Angela 
shook her head without turning or replying. Nan went over 
and put her arms about her. 

“Come,” she urged, gently, “you havenT been to bed all 
night, dear, nor eaten a morsel of breakfast. You will break 
down, and you don’t want to do that; you want to be strong 
and brave, and bear up like a soldier, dearest.” 

Angela turned and looked at her friend, smiling piti- 
fully. 

“The battle has been too long — and hard,” she said. “The 
spirit is willing — ^but the flesh is weak,” 


LIFE. 


331 


“Not so, dearest,’’ replied Nan. “You have been so brave 
and true. You are tired out with all the grief of these last 
hours, but you must not give up now. It wouldn’t be like 
you. 1 know you better than you know yourself. Your 
motto is to die fighting, and you will keep up not only for 
your sake and Wilfrid’s, but for that poor child-mother and 
murderess across the seas.” 

Angela shuddered and covered her face with her hands. 

“Ah, it was a bitter, bitter Gethsemane,” she moaned. 

“And you have borne it so nobly and have come out so 
strong and purified, the victor in the great struggle,” cried 
her friend. 

“Don’t, don’t say it. I might yet repent and ask him, ah, 
more, implore him, not to go. It seems, it seems,” she cried, 
wildly, “as if I were catching my heart in my hands and 
tearing it out by the bloody roots — to my own death and 
destruction. It seems as though I cannot live when all that 
made life good is gone — forever.” 

“I know, dearest, I know,” sobbed Nan, breaking down. 

“I am so young,” continued Angela in a stifling voice; 
“oh, God! so young! Life has not always been bright for 
me, and in him, I had hoped, had come an end to all my 
sorrows, the dawn of all my joys. It was not much I asked; 
only one man and his love out of all the universe of men; 
such a small, small drop in the human sea, but the worth 
of the whole wide world to me! It had been better had I 
never lifte(i the cup of happiness to my lips. The wine of 
love was sweet, too sweet to drain so soon, and find the lees 
so bitter.” 

“Don’t, dear,” begged her friend; “it only makes it harder 
for you — this constant rehearsal of your painful part.” 

Angela laid her head on the taller girl’s shoulder. 

“Let me be weak just a little,” she pleaded; “I am so tired 
with being strong.” 

“It was only for your own sake I advised, dear,” answered 
Nan, kissing her with loving endearment. “Come, won’t 
you eat a little and drink this cup of tea? You will feel so 


332 


LIFE. 


much Ijetter then’^ — here she stopped, and then continued 
softly — ‘^you know Wilfrid will soon be here to say good 
by ” 

Thus persuaded, Angela, naturally gentle and obliging, 
succeeded in forcing back her tears while she choken down 
the tea urged with such kind persistence by Nan, and when 
she managed to follow it with a few bites of toast her friend’s 
eyes beamed with gratification. She had just set the tray 
aside and laughingly disrobed Angela, bundling her up in a 
rose-colored kimona, when steps were heard outside, and in 
another moment Wilfrid entered. 

With a hurried nod of greeting to Nan, he made his way 
directly to the chair where Angela was ensconced, and, 
kneeling beside it, put his arms about her, his head bowed 
in her lap. 

The girl gripped either arm of the chair hard with such 
mighty will that her hands grew purple above the finger 
nails, while she leaned as far back, as far away from him, 
as she could, and closed her eyes. She could not speak. The 
resolution, born of the night of passion when he had knelt 
thus at her feet, his lowly head and stricken young form 
mutely pleading for mercy, came back to her. She had no 
strength for a repetition of the scene. Every fibre of her 
body quivered with love for him, his blighted youth, his 
love for her and she felt herself yielding. 

‘Tn the hour of trial,” — she muttered the prayer uncon- 
sciously. 

Nan had tiptoed softly from the room. A hush like that 
of death had fallen over the apartment; only the rain out- 
side making as dismal a discord with love and life as the 
two still figures within who were silently fighting its hardest 
battle. At last Wilfrid raised his head, lifting his grey eyes 
to the girl’s above him — ^his lashes damp with tears. Their 
agony was more than she could bear. She sprang to her 
feet, upsetting him in the strength of her frenzy. 

“Don’t!” she shrieked, shutting out the sight with her 
hand; “don’t, or I shall go mad, mad, I tell you, madT 


LIFE. 


333 


Wilfrid’s face turned gray; from haggard grief to ghastly 
despair. 

^‘Then — then you have decided it — that way,” he gasped. 

She bowed her head; speech had failed her. He looked 
at her; she turned away. She could not meet his glance. 

^‘And so,” he said unsteadily, ^^this is your love for me — 
your love that would endure to the end.” 

^‘Don’t speak like that,” she moaned; ‘4t is cruel, unjust, 
and in your heart you know it.” 

“No,” he answered, “I do not know it. I cannot conceive 
a love that will give up its object so easily — in a single 
night.” 

“If you only knew,” she said in a tone of suppressed 
agony, “the single night was a thousand years, and each 
hour filled with a thousand tortures I And if you cannot 
understand the greatness of my love in its renunciation, 
your own is small, too small, and is to blame — not mine.” 

Wilfrid thought a moment. 

“Why,” he said, “do you sacrifice your life for another 
woman’s? Why is not yours as deserving of happiness as 
hers? Why ruin your life and mine — two lives instead of 
one?” 

Angela looked at him for a moment, seemingly petrified 
with horror. This was the hardest blow of all I Couldn’t 
he, didn’t he understand the obligations of manhood and 
honor, the baseness of the wrong which he must right ? Had 
he no pity, no remorse, for the wreck he had wrought? Did 
his stricken heart hold only pity for himself — ^his own 
thwarted love and passion? Was he reproaching her for 
sacrificing all that she held most dear for the sake of a 
fallen woman whom she had never even seen? A trusting 
girl who had become a victim of that same winning person- 
ality which had won her own heart? And for whose sake, 
because she understood, she could strike the death blow to 
her future. Could he not understand that through her great 
love for him, she was extending compassion to this other? 
She, his wife, to whom he belonged by the laws of man, to 


334 


LIFE. 


that other, to whom he belonged by the laws of God and 
nature. Her idol lay shattered at her feet, and still — she 
loved him. Womanlike, she would gather up the pieces, 
cement them with her woman^s love, blind her eyes to the 
thousand rivets and tenderly reinstate this mockery of the 
high and noble to her woman’s heart and worship. This 
would come in time, but now she shuddered at the sudden 
realization. Her idol’s feet were clay! 

‘^You — you don’t think my decision the right one, then?” 
said Angela. 

“No,” replied Wilfrid resolutely. “I can do no good by 
going now. If the child were yet to be born, or if I had 
known while it lived, I could then understand how it would 
be my duty to go. As it is now, the child is dead, the mother 
is — a murderess, will be imprisoned for life, or perhaps death 
may be the verdict. I can do no good; I cannot wash the 
crime from her soul, or set her free from the law’s just pun- 
ishment. You are my wife, my first duty is to you. You 
love me, I love you. Why bewail the past and let it destroy 
the future?” 

“And what could the future bring to us, when it is built 
on the wreckage of a human soul?” said Angela, in a low 
tone. 

Wilfrid was silent for a moment. 

“She is not the only woman who has gone wrong and 
suffered for it,” he replied, averting his eyes from Angela, 
“and I am not the first man whose fault it has been. These 
things happen every day, every hour; all fellows sow a few 
wild oats. I am no more a criminal than any other man in 
the regiment. In my case, the results have been disastrous; 
that is all. It was my infernal luck, the publicity of it. It 
is not my fault.” 

“Oh, my God, man, is that really what you think, the way 
you look at it,” gasped Angela. 

The man looked surprised. 

“Of course, I feel dreadfully; I am all cut up about it,” he 
said. “She was a sweet little girl, and I was rather in- 


LIFE. 


336 


fatuated — I suppose you would call it that. I never meant 
to do her a wrong. But men are men, and sometimes cir- 
cumstances place them in positions where they are not re- 
sponsible. Any man placed as I was would have done the 
same thing. The temptation to a man’s passion cannot al- 
ways be resisted. It is not like a cool-headed decision, to be 
made between right and wrong. In cases like mine, a man 
loses his head, his brain is on fire. Women know this, and it 
is they who should be more careful.” 

^^But this woman — did she know?” asked Angela in a low 
tone. 

“Well — I — no — ” began Wilfrid. 

Angela placed her little hand over his mouth. 

“Ah, I thought not,” she said, “and that is why I say you 
must go. Otherwise I would yield to my own heart’s crying 
and bid you stay ; for in letting you go, I am shutting out all 
the happiness of the future years, and what remains isn’t 
worth living for. It isn’t so much as the light of one star in 
all the heaven’s myriads.” 

“Then why do you send me away, my darling, my love, my 
wife?” cried Wilfrid, passionately, snatching her to him as 
though he would never let her go. “Let me stay. I cannot 
go ; I cannot bear it. You are my all, the light of my world, 
the very essence of my life. I cannot help poor Mary now, 
but I can make your life so glad that God will forgive that 
other’s wreck. Let me stay, I shall not ask you,” he con- 
tinued vehemently, “I will stay. Your love is too sweet to 
leave so soon. I would be mad to attempt it, to even think 
of it, for your love would follow me, haunt me, hold me, drag 
me to you, until in desperation I would leap from the ship 
putting the miles between us, and try to swim back to you.” 

“Don’t,” cried Angela, hoarsely, struggling to free herself 
before it was too late. ^^Go, for God’s sake, go while I can 
say the words.” 

“I will not,” he answered, holding her the tighter. 

“You must, you shall,” she sobbed wildly. ‘Tf you remain 
I shall hate you, and be less yours than if the sea rolled be- 


336 


LIFE. 


tween us. When you have gone, my heart will be yours; 
remain, and what I now love, I will be forced to despise.” 

His clasp loosened about her, and he sank into a chair, 
gazing up at her in amazement. 

^‘Can’t you understand,” she continued, her face white as 
death, her eyes dominant with a strange, wonderful light, 
“can’t you understand that I love you, love your face, your 
eyes, your lips, your hair, your broad shoulders, ah — I have 
watched you so often with pride, and have seen how your 
presence seemed to dwarf all others near you. I have loved 
your hands, the things you touch, even your feet in your 
riding boots or leggings, your shoulder-straps, your hat 
with the brim torn by a bullet, your sword, everything, every- 
thing — not only yourself, but all that belonged to you. Once 
I went into the house for something, it was one evening 
when we had all been sitting on the veranda. Your cap and 
gloves were lying on the table in the hall and I kissed them 
each a hundred times; that was before I ever even kissed 
you; and only last night I kissed your card — because your 
hand had pencilled the words upon it. This is how I have 
loved you, and I would rather never, never see you again in 
all the lonely years to come, than to lose the one-thousandth 
part of the memory of that love, when I believe you to be 
honorable and true. But, if I were compelled to live my life 
out, with you stripped of the manhood that I worshipped, I 
should despise you. That is why I bid you go.” 

Wilfrid was not capable of grasping the spirit of Angela’s 
words. He only vaguely understood, felt rather than saw 
that the girl before him was so high, so deep, so wide in love, 
that his own limitations could not bound it. He loved her 
with all the strength that was in him and to its fullest extent, 
but its fulness was only as one single drop in the deep well 
of hers. 

He rose to his feet, he no longer doubted her; he did not 
ask himself why he had changed every thought, every plan, 
all in the minute that followed her last words. But he had; 
he knew it, and would abide by her decree. 


LIFE. 


337 


“I will do as you say,” he said, humbly. “Forgive me the 
wrong I have done you, and the sorrow I have caused you; 
but remember always that I loved you with the best that was 
in my worthless self, that I never loved until I met you, and 
will love you, unworthy as I am, until the end.” 

For just that little space of time, Wilfrid McDonald was 
more a man than he had ever been in his life. He had ack- 
nowledged himself worthless, unworthy. 

It was Angela’s turn to weaken. 

“I believe in you,” she said unsteadily, “and I love you 
now a thousand times more than when I spoke of it a moment 
since; and yet I had not thought it possible.” 

“Good-bye,” said the young soldier. “Good-bye, for the 
last time, my wife.” 

He held out his arms and the girl went into them without 
a word, sobbing bitterly, her face buried on his shoulder. 

“It was such a little while I had to call you wife,” he con- 
tinued, “such a little, little time, only one short day, and the 
memory of that must last through all the countless ones to 
come. It was sweet, too sweet, perhaps, to call you so and 
hold you next my heart.” 

“Maybe,” said Angela, “if we do what is right, the very 
best we can, maybe God will be good to us and make it all 
come right after a little time.” 

“My little saint, your faith deserves reward,” said her hus- 
band, reverently. “May the Almighty grant you an answer 
to your hopes and prayers in the years to come.” 

He was silent for some time, summoning up courage to 
put a question he feared to have her answer. Finally, he 
spoke. 

“When — do you go ?” he faltered. 

“To-morrow,” she answered, not daring to look at him. 

“So soon,” he almost pleaded. 

“It is better so,” she answered gently. For a moment 
silence again fell upon them. Angela broke it with a scarce- 
ly whispered inquiry. 

“And you ?” 


338 


LIFE. 


“As soon as leave is granted me/’ lie answered. 

“We shall both be in New York in a little while/’ she said 
musingly. 

“You — in New York,” he answered, surprised, a gleam of 
pleasure lighting up his face. 

“Yes, it will be necessary, you know, to get — ” 

“Get what,” eagerly. 

“The — the divorce,” she answered very low. 

“Ah — I had forgotten. Then it is indeed good-bye to love, 
to life, to hope, to everything?” 

“It is right,” she answered, desperately. 

“I cannot think it,” he said. 

“You will — in time,” she replied. 

“And you would have me — ” he faltered. 

“Marry that other girl, to whom your life belongs,” she 
answered. 

“But you are my wife.” 

“She is the mother of your child. Let us not go over the 
old ground. You know what I think, and what I have said. 
I cannot take back what I know to be right, or to bid you 
for mine, for yours, for anyone’s sake to do wrong. I shall 
find it hard — maybe harder than yourself. Somehow I think 
such things are always harder for a woman, but it will help 
me, if I know the other woman’s burden is lighter, for her’s 
has been a fiercer battle even than mine. In — in after 
years, if God wills it that we should come again together, you 
will find me waiting — loving you the same as now. And 
now, good-bye. I cannot bear you and my resolutions to- 
gether in my heart much longer. I am not a good soldier, 
you see, dearest, for all my boasting. I can make the charge, 
but I cannot stand the fire,” she concluded, with a faint 
smile. 

“You are so brave that you make me ashamed,” said Wil- 
frid, humbly. “It seems a pity that we should lose a single 
hour of the few left us. Ah, darling, I would rather be a 
coward, and stay.” 

“No, no — don’t ask it,” she pleaded. 


LIFE. 


339 


But Wilfrid paid no heed. 

‘‘Listen,” he said. “It is such a little while that we have to 
be happy in each other’s love. When the long days and 
nights of black loneliness seem never ending in our weary 
waiting, how bitterly we will regret every moment you would 
now wantonly waste, as even I am always regretting the 
weeks here we have let go by, ignorant of the precious joys 
with which they might have been laden for us. Do not send 
me away from you yet.” 

“You make it so hard for me,” said the girl, desperately, 
“and I am afraid of you, darling, afraid of myself, afraid of 
our love, that it may overwhelm us both.” 

“The parting may be forever,” he pleaded. 

“Then stay,” she cried, her love making her weak at last. 
“It is such a little while, even as you say. The future will 
be long and very lonely, and — we may never meet again.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


BEARING THE BATTLE DRUMS. 

That friend is oniy the true friend who, 

Is near when troubie comes ; 

That man is only the brave man who 
Can bear the battle-drums. 

— The Hitopadesa. 

“Julian, the Major and Ned sat, a disconsolate trio, in the 
little parsonage study. Each of the three were silently re- 
membering the days when Mary had been wont to make the 
minister’s home so cheerful with her bright, sweet presence, 
and each sighed involuntarily as the meaning of its changed 
aspect came back to them. 

The Major looked at the young minister, sitting over in 
the shadow, and sighed again. Such a changed man was he 
that one would scarcely recognize the young apostle of the 
mission of other days. In the short time, his dark hair had 
turned about the temples to a glistening white, and these 
silver locks fell heavy and damp upon his whiter forehead; 
his eyes, darker by the contrast, burned with a miserable 
restlessness, and the lines about his mouth were drawn and 
tense. 

“Come, cheer up, old chap! This will never do,” said the 
Major. “Surely you have realized enough from this sale to 
make matters easy for you.” 

Julian looked from the bare walls and empty bookshelves 
to the floor, where his erstwhile precious library and his few 
fine pictures lay boxed and crated, ready to be taken from 
the humble little mission study to the Fifth avenue mansion, 
for which they had been purchased. A personal friend and 
admirer of the young minister’s, who had studied law with 


LIFE. 


341 


him ten years before, had gladly paid him well for them, 
happy to be of service to the young man. 

“Everything is gone now ’cept de organ,” commented Ned, 
disconsolately. “Is yer a-goin’ ter sell dat, too?” 

A smile, that was infinitely sadder than any tears could 
have been, broke over the tired face of the minister. He 
brushed his hand tenderly across the worn cover of the little, 
old instrument. 

“No, Ned” — he spoke unsteadily — “Poor Mary used to 
play on this, and I have learned to love her soul through 
these notes.” 

The Major shook his head at Ned, as a sign that he should 
not dwell upon the subject. He rose and walked over to 
Julian. “My friend,’’ he said, laying his hand on the minis- 
ter’s bowed shoulder, “we all loved her; may God make her 
soul as white and pure in the days to come as it was when 
she used to let its sweetness find echo in these organ notes.” 

Julian caught the hand which lay on his shoulder in both 
his trembling ones. “God bless you for that,” he said, 
hoarsely. 

“Oh, say, dere’s a kerrege an’ pair stoppin’ outside, an’ a 
finely dressed lady a-comin’ to de door,” announced Ned, from 
his point of view, by the window. 

“It is mother,” half muttered the young minister, a chill 
striking home to his heart. 

“Well, we will leave you,” said the Major. “Good-bye, 
brace up, old fellow, and if the old lady gets cantankerous, 
remember my motto, ^don’t let trifles trouble you.’ So long, 
old chap, we’ll be around to see you in the morning. Come, 
Ned.” 

As he opened the door to go out, Mrs. St. Julian was just 
coming in; the Major made a sweeping bow and Ned raised 
his cap, respectfully, while madame lifted her gold lorgnette 
and her eyebrows at the same time. Then she lowered both 
and passed into the room without deigning to speak or make 
a sign of recognition. 

“Well, Julian,” she began, as she closed the door behind 


342 


LIFE. 


her. She stopped involuntarily for a moment, as Julian 
raised his white face to hers. ‘‘Mercy I” she exclaimed, “you 
look as if you had been through the wars. What is the mat- 
ter with you? What have you been doing? I thought you 
had recovered from your illness. You are grieving to death 
over this miserable wanton of a girl, I suppose, who ought — ” 
she stopped short, again, with fear this time, for Julian had 
risen, and with one stride, had reached her side. His up- 
lifted hand was clenched until every muscle showed through 
the taut skin, and his eyes were terrible. 

“Madame,” he said, and his voice rattled with passion, 
“only the fact of your being a woman keeps me from crush- 
ing you — from striking you to the ground to find your na- 
ture’s level.” 

“Julian,” whimpered the terrified woman; “Julian, you 
forget I am your mother.” 

“You are not my mother,” he replied. “You never were. 
Since babyhood you have never bestowed upon me a mother’s 
true devotion. I used to cry for your love, t(] grieve for 
your motherhood; I used to see other boys — first, little chaps 
at school; afterwards, grown men at college, whose greatest 
endeavor, purest reverence and truest love, was all for a 
mother, who would be glad of their successes, little or big, 
and crown them with her mother’s kiss. I used to cry at 
first — yes, for years I cried, unutterably lonely and alone — 
even after I was a grown boy, my lashes were often wet 
with the loneliness of my unloved manhood. And all these 
years I grieved the more because I fancied the wrong was in 
myself — that I was to blame. But now, now I know you as 
you are — in all your vanity, all of your selfishness, all of 
your littleness, all of your sinfulness — and while nature has 
decreed that you are my mother, I thanh God that I am not 
of you.” 

Madame covered her face with her gloved hands. “Alas,” 
she whimpered, “the ingratitude of children is truly sharper 
than the serpent’s tooth.” 

“Mother,” replied Julian, dryly, “did I not know you so 


LIFE, 


343 


well, there might arise within me a feeling of pity at the 
emotion you profess; but, knowing you as I do, I fear that 
in this case the quotation is merely empty words.” 

Madame looked disconcerted. How was she to manage 
this strange, new Julian? She suddenly realized that she 
was no longer dealing with either the man of God, or a 
man gentle with the obligations of their relative positions — 
he had denounced her, and renounced the ties that bound 
them; he was no longer a minister of peace, but a man — a 
passionately loving, desperate man, standing at bay with the 
world, brought there by the love of a woman and the base 
treachery of a man. Mrs. St. Julian was clever enough to 
see that she must adopt different tactics. 

“Julian,” she said, “you are right — quite right. All you 
have said is true. I realize now, too late, I fear, to ever win 
back your affection or esteem, how much I failed, and how 
much I have missed. Perhaps I have loved you better than 
you think, but all that is left to me now is the old, old story 
of regret — regret too late to right the wrong, regret that — ” 
her voice choked with sobs and she began to cry softly. 

In a moment, Julian, who had been silent, thunderstruck, 
scarce believing his ears, was at her side. “Mother,” he said 
gently, taking her hands, “forgive me.” 

The lady sobbed a little more distressedly. 

“It isnT too late, mother,” continued the young minister, 
“there are years of life still left for both of us. We can 
make up in them for all we have lost in those now wasted. 
You will help me save my darling, and — ” 

“You still love that — that girl, after all of the sorrow, all 
of the shame she has brought upon you?” interrupted his 
mother, making a desperate effort to control her voice so 
that it might not betray to him the anger and disgust with 
which she was shaking with inward rage. 

“Ah, mother,” replied the young minister, “the measure of 
my love isn’t so small as to be bounded by anything in the 
world. When a man loves as I do, it is a thing so infinite 
that nothing can touch or change it.” 


344 


LIFE. 


“But, this girl^ — have you no reproach for all that she has 
made you suffer?” asked his mother. 

“Love suffereth all things,” answered her son. “No, 
mother, I have nothing but the most tender compassion for 
my poor, little darling, with her terrible ruined young life. 
She loved another, even as I loved her. It was not her great 
thoughtlessness, her wonderful love for which she sacrificed 
her all, that is to blame — but the baseness, the perfidy, the 
dishonor of the man who betrayed it, who stole it all white 
and pure, and flung it in the gutter for the world to trample 
and spit upon. No, mother, Mary is a better woman to-day 
than hundreds of your fashionable friends who have sold 
themselves for money and worldly position.” 

“You wonH find that the world will agree with you upon 
that score,” said Mrs. St. Julian, sharply. 

“Not any of your world, mother, but that will not matter 
to me. She is good, she is young, she is sweet, her heart is 
pure^ and — I love her,” answered Julian. 

“What will that benefit you? What is the good of loving 
her now?” questioned Mrs. St. Julian. 

“Mother, that is where you can help me. Give me the 
money to defray the expense of her trial — ^help me to save 
my darling, to procure her freedom,” pleaded the young 
minister. 

“What would it benefit her if the law should release her? 
She has her conscience, she has the world to face and she is 
branded with a shame the world will not Overlook, and which 
she will never be allowed to forget,” said his mother. 

“That,” answered Julian, “is where my love shall save her. 
If she is freed, I will take my poor darling away from here, 
where she may learn to forget, and where, in time, we may 
both be by the world forgotten. We will go to another coun- 
try where she will not be known, and we will marry and begin 
life over again and my love shall be so strong, so true, so 
great that she cannot fail to be at least contented and per- 
haps happy in its great light and warmth.” 

“Julian,” fairly gasped his mother, Julian, are you crazy? 


LIFE. 


345 


Can jnu even dream of such a thing as that? Why, think 
of me and of what such a disgrace would men. Think of 
your brother — ” 

brother ” — the young minister’s voice shook as he 
shouted the words. He rose to his feet, his face white with 
a terrible rage, such as his mother had never seen upon his 
countenance before — “May God damn my brother, and all 
such men as he,” he cried. 

“Julian — how can you?” His mother had risen pale and 
affrighted, the first suspicion of the truth having been flashed 
through her mind by Julian’s words. 

The minister made no reply. He was afraid to trust him- 
self even to think. His eyes blazed, his nostrils quivered, 
his mouth was set until his lips appeared to be a thin, gray 
line across his face. 

“Julian — tell me — what you think,” questioned his mother. 
“You don’t mean to say that that miserable girl has dared to 
attack your brother’s character, and to accuse him of being 
the author of her shame?” 

The minister closed his eyes. His lips moved, but no 
sound came from them. 

His mother watched him closely for a few moments, and 
then, heedless of her son’s misery, continued : “It is true, 
then, and that is why you think you must marry this wanton 
— this shameless thing! You think it is your duty to right 
your brother’s wrong! Fool! Truly, your innocent peasant 
girl found both of my son’s alike gullible. But you shall not 
marry her, do you hear? Not if the courts free her fifty 
times over.” Mrs. St. Julian was white with passion as she 
rose to her feet and continued: 

“If I can hSfve anything to do with this case, if my in- 
fluence can be brought to bear, this miserable creature shall 
not escape one hour of her just punishment.” She ap- 
proached her son. “And to think that you would be such a 
consummate fool and dupe,” she hissed; “that you can con- 
template returning to the bar and becoming the sensation of 
the hour, a clap-trap lawyer with your name and pictures in 


346 


LIFE. 


all of the daily papers, pleading a wanton’s cause, and not only 
mixing yourself, but dragging your brother’s honor into all 
of this filthy affair. I tell you, sir, and I mean what I say, 
that if you do this thing you shall be deprived of your orders, 
of your position, of your right to even preach the gospel in 
your church. I shall go to your bishop, and he will say to 
you the same thing that I have, if you publicly defend this 
wanton you shall be publicly put out of the church and in the 
sight of all your friends you shall be stripped of your godly 
orders.” 

Julian looked his mother straight in the eyes for a long 
time, until her own fell weakly beneath the power of the gaze. 

“If the church and my godly orders do not permit of the 
defense of right, of the forgiveness of a sin, of loyalty to 
love, then I will not wait to be driven out,” he said, “for I 
will go of my own free will and accord, and seek another 
home where God is the judge, and where His word can be 
believed and is obeyed. I should be glad to leave a miser- 
ably weak and wicked hypocrisy which would be a desecra- 
tion to the holy name of Christ and an insult to His life and 
teaching.” 

Julian’s face was calm but livid as he crossed to the door, 
then opening it, he continued: 

“Mother, the time has come when we must part — forever. 
I shall not cross your path, nor must you again cross mine. 
I beg of you to go now, while I can still remember what a 
man must needs owe to a woman’s presence.” 

Mrs. St. Julian did not move. Her son pointed to the 
open doorway. 

“Go,” he said, and he averted his face so that his mother 
might not see his tears. Mrs. St. Julian laid her hand upon 
his outstretched arm. He shook it off. “Gu,” he ordered, 
passionately, “and I pray God I may never see your face 
again.” 

The woman turned and went slowly out, closing the door 
behind her. 

When she had gone, the minister stood quite still for sev- 


LIFE. 


347 


eral minutes, his eyes burning into the gathering darkness, 
as if he were asking God Himself some mighty question. 
Then his tenseness relaxed and he walked unsteadily over to. 
the little brown organ, and lowering his head he buried his 
face in the little, worn cover, while a very storm of sobs 
shook his tired body and he kissed the keys her fingers had 
touched, with a passionate tenderness. 

^^May God, in His boundless mercy, bring comfort to my 
poor, lost darling,” he cried, ‘‘may God bless her and help 
me to aid her.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


THE PRISONER IN THE TOMBS. 

Weary hearts ! weary hearts ! by cares of life oflpressed, 

Ye are wandering in the shadows — ye are sighing for a rest ; 

There is darkness in the heavens, and earth is bleak below 
And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow turn to woe. 

Weary hearts ! God is Rest. 

— Abram Joseph By an. 

Mary sat on the side of her narrow bed; occasionally a low 
moan escaped her white lips, while with her hands clasped 
across her knees, she rocked back and forth in agony. 

^‘What have I done, how did I do it?” she asked herself 
the whispered question a thousand times a day. 

She had been six months a prisoner in the Tombs. 

There were times when she would pass whole days and 
nights — terrible nights — in a torpor of horror, from which 
she could not break away. Over and over again out of the 
blackness would come her baby’s eyes as they had looked up 
into hers during its last day on earth. Waking, dreaming, its 
tiny fingers curled about her own; only now their soft little 
touch tore her heart from her and its roots lay bleeding, and 
would never die. 

On other days, but only in a great while, the fearful ten- 
sion of her brain was relieved by a stupor, bordering on in- 
difference, but this pulled her back from the very verge of 
madness. At these times she would wonder dully at the lev- 
ity displayed by some of her prison companions. 

There was one, who always wore dainty clothes, breakfast 
jackets of blue and pink, with corresponding bows in the 
carefully arranged blonde hair. This girl laughed frequent- 
ly, and she had a habit of throwing her head proudly back 
and her white throat would gleam like a marble column 


LIFE. 


349 


'P- 

agaifist the black velvet band which always adorned it. 
Mary had asked Mrs. Mason, the prison angel, who she was, 
wondering at a criminal who could thus amuse herself with 
the petty details of dress and assume a levity that was in 
little accord with her pride of manner. 

^‘She is accused of murdering her lover, a young fellow 
just come to manhood — she shot him and left him wounded, 
to die alone.’’ 

^^And she can laugh, oh, God!” cried Mary, wonderingly. 

^^Many do, strange to say,” replied Mrs. Mason. ‘Terhaps, 
she is innocent, she pleads not guilty, although circumstan- 
tial evidence is very strong against her; but she sleeps well 
and talks freely of her dead lover. She says %e had a most 
^^kissable” mouth and beautiful teeth and that she was very 
fond of him.’ One would think that whether she murdered 
him or not, his terrible death, even at other hands, would 
affect her more deeply. Her bitterest accusers are the young 
man’s mother, he was an only son, and a girl who was her 
rival for his love.” 

^^And that one going out now, with the little girl?” Mary 
had asked, as a faded, but still pretty woman of perhaps 
thirty-five, went by with a guard, holding a little girl by the 
hand. 

^^Oh — she killed her mother — fed her poison in her food. 
I don’t believe she is guilty, myself; I have spoken with her 
often. She is a foolish, shallow woman, but I do not believe 
she is wicked; she is too devotedly attached to her children. 
She was never married, but that seems to have made no dif- 
ference in her natural affection for them, which argues well 
in her case, I think. A loving mother would more than 
likely be a loving daughter.” 

Mary shuddered violently as each word smote upon her 
ears and heart with terrible meaning and reproach, from the 
gentle lips of the Tombs angel, who talked on, unconscious 
that every word she uttered, pierced her hearer’s soul like a 
two-edged sword. 

“She is going over to the Island, to-day,” she continued; 


350 


LIFE. 


‘^she will soon become a mother, again. She seems really 
happy in anticipation of it. No thought of the unfortunate 
environment and circumstances of its birth, or the shame 
with which its little life is already branded, seems to have 
occurred to her. That is the sort of woman she is. A de- 
generate, an animal, with none of the finer instincts, yet, 
like all other animals, loving her offspring passionately.” 

*^She is good, then,” said Mary, faintly, “I hope she will 
be freed to guard their lives.” 

“I think she will,” answered Mrs. Mason. “I shall do all 
in my power for her. She has asked me to stand sponsor for 
the little one, when it comes, and I will do so.” 

“Ah, how good and noble you are! What would this 
prison and its prisoners do without you ? I know I could not 
have borne my trouble but for you. There are moments, 
many of them, when I could dash my brains out against the 
wall. If I could only die, die in torture; the more horribly 
my body could suffer, the easier my brain would be. It is 
my brain, my brain,” holding her hot head between her 
hands. “It throbs, it burns like the fires of torment. It 
never ceases its beating, it never rests night or day, or 
cools one-millionth part of a second. I want to tear it out, 
to trample it on the floor. And, more than all the rest, 
I want to pluck my eyes out that for one brief moment 
I might fail to see those other eyes that burn damnation into 
mine. Ah, the little baby fingers, so softly frail and cling- 
ing sweet, the baby eyes, that God meant to be every mother’s 
heaven !” 

She fell face downward on the floor, weeping, gasping, 
beating her forehead against the hard floor, till it bore great 
crimson bruises, that would turn black by the morrow. 

The good woman of comfort raised her, pityingly, ten- 
derly. 

“My poor, poor child; you must not give way like this. 
You will kill yourself in such paroxysms.” 

“Oh, if I only could, if I only could,” moaned the girl. 


LIFE. 


351 


who Lad slipped from her grasp to the floor and again 
crouched at her knee. 

Suddenly she lifted her eyes and the strange, . unnatural 
gleam in them made Mrs. Mason shudder, and a presenti- 
ment of the possible end of this young life was flashed across 
her mind. 

Mary clutched her friend about the knees, her eyes dis- 
tended, and into their blue depths grew a horrible fear. 

“And, yet — I am afraid to die,” she gasped in a hoarse 
whisper; “Fm afraid to die! What shall I do?” in hopeless 
terror. “I am afraid to die.” 

“You will not be convicted, my child, please God,” said 
Mrs. Mason, growing cold herself in the presence of Mary^s 
awful horror. 

“But if I should, if I should,” she went on, “and am sen- 
tenced to death! My soul will perish! A murderer is 
damned! Ah, there is the fire, you know; the fire that is 
not quenched!” 

“God is your judge, dear,” said her friend, gently ; “and he 
is ever merciful and ready to forgive. He understands 
what we cannot and He gave His only Son to save sinners, 
sinners, not angels.” 

“Angels!” mused Mary, softly; as if the word had awak- 
ened some sweet memory, for she smiled to herself a little 
and her tense grasp on Mrs. Mason loosened, as she seemed 
wrapt in some reverie of the past. 

“Oh, yes,” she said, presently; her whole face lighting up, 
“Oh, yes ; I remember. They called me the angel, Hhe Angel 
of the Mission.’ The little mission,” she went on uncon- 
scious of her listener, “Julian’s little mission, where he. Aunt 
Betsy and I — and — and — ” her face had clouded and hot 
tears crowded to her mournful eyes, “and — she quiv- 
ered. 

“Never mind, dear; never mind him,” interposed Mrs. 
Mason, with gentle haste. 

“You — you — can’t think how I — how I — loved — him,” she 
went on piteously. 


352 


LIFE. 


“Has your good friend, the minister, been to see you to- 
day?” asked Mrs. Mason, endeavoring to turn the tide of 
Mary’s thoughts into a less painful channel. 

“Yes,” said Mary, “and he is so kind and tells me to bear 
up and that I am just the same to him as I always was. 
But his face is so white and thin, and his hands shake like 
an old man’s, and his eyes look hollow and dark with sorrow. 
I love Julian, but oh, Mrs. Mason,” her mind reverting to 
her never-forgotten sorrow, “my little one, my baby! Women 
do not love with the best that is in them until they are 
mothers; my little one, I loved it so differently, but better 
even than — him. And they say I was cruel and did not 
love it, that I murdered it,” the word rattled hoarsely in her 
throat, “and I — ” 

Mrs. Mason laid her hand firmly over the girl’s white lips. 

“You must not think or talk of this thing, my child,” she 
said kindly, but decidedly. “If you do, I shall have to leave 
you ; and I don’t want to do that until you are asleep. Come, 
now, lie down and let me bathe your forehead and I will sing 
to you if you like.” 

Mary obeyed and the good Samaritan poured healing 
words into her wounded soul. 

In her ten years of prison work, Mrs. Mason had never had 
a case so appeal to her as this one had. She fully believed 
Mary’s story; that she meant to save both herself and child 
from a future life of shame and misery! Many lifted their 
eyebrows as they questioned the honesty of her statement, 
that she intended drowning herself also, and that the only 
reason she did not carry it out was that she was rescued, and 
carried from the scene of the tragedy, while she lay fainting. 
She had told this with graphic force to Mrs. Mason, and that 
lady believed it absolutely. No woman could have doubted 
who heard her daily, hourly wailing of love and despair for 
her little one. There had been no lack of motherly love, but 
a bitter, bitter shame had overshadowed all other feelings 
and had led her onward to the fearful act. 


LIFE. 


353 


As lirs. Mason sat gently soothing the passion tossed girl, 
a note was brought to her. 

It read: 

"My dear Mrs. Mason : 

"If you would be good enough to allow me to see the prisoner, Mary 
St. John, I would thank you from the bottom of my heart. I should 
also like to see you alone for a few minutes first. I called at your 
house and your son directed me here. 

“Yours sincerely, 

“Angela C. McDonald." 

^^McDonald, McDonald/’ thought she, wondering why 
the name was familiar; then, in a flash it came to her. 

‘^Why, that — ” she exclaimed half aloud, then stopped. ‘^I 
will be down directly,” she told the guard. “Good-bye, for a 
little while, my child, I will be back soon,” she said, kissing 
Mary. 

She went down to the reception room, just inside and to 
the right of the great iron-barred entrance door, a sight al- 
most as pitiful as the one she had just left, met her eyes. 
Angela, dressed elegantly, but simply in deep black, came 
forward to greet her. Her face was very pale and her sad 
eyes were so full of untold misery, that they seemed far 
darker than when they lighted with love for Wilfrid in those 
happy days in Manila. 

The drooping lips curved into a faint smile of pleasure as 
good Mrs. Mason cordially took her small gloved hand and 
pressed it kindly, asking her in what way she might oblige 

her. 

Angela’s heart went out to her at once. It was a relief ta 
find that the Tomb’s Angel was not a sepulchral faced saint, 
wrapt in straight black robes and mantled in an overpower- 
ing consciousness of her own good deeds. The pleasant 
faced woman, whose iron-gray hair was becomingly curled 
and arranged and who wore a light figured silk waist with 
little touches of lace at the throat and sleeves, must have 
indeed been a ray of light to the heavy hearts within the 
12 


354 


LIFE. 


stone walls of the prison, and her geniality, born of innate 
goodness and true womanly sympathy with suffering hu- 
manity, made Angela’s heart warm to her at once. She 
made the explanation she had so much dreaded, quite natur- 
ally and without embarrassment, drawing comfort and en- 
couragement from the older woman’s kindly eyes. 

^^My poor, poor child,” she exclaimed when Angela had 
finished; “and so you are another victim in this most unfor- 
tunate case.” 

She almost decided to persuade Angela not to go above to 
see the pitiful wreck, bruised and suffering, on the narrow 
prison bed, knowing that the sight would only increase her 
grief, but Angela begged so earnestly that she finally led the 
way to the cell. 

Mary did not notice them as they stood at the barred door, 
watching her. She had gotten out of bed, unable to endure 
the silence and had crouched down against the opposite wall, 
her great eyes looking far beyond her prison boundaries, be- 
yond the world outside, into the terrible space from whose 
blackness her baby’s eyes reproached her eternally, ajid tiny 
baby fingers clutched at her broken heart. 

Angela heard a low, inarticulate cry of pain from the 
girl at her side. 

“Is she — mad?” she gasped. 

“No, but she soon will be, if she keeps on like this,” 
answered the good woman. 

“Mary,” she called gently. 

At the sound of her voice, Mary raised her eyes, and they 
lost their look of awful horror as a faint gleam of pleased 
recognition lighted their hopelessness. 

“Mary,” said Mrs. Mason, “I have brought some one to 
see you.” 

With one of those strange intuitions, which are beyond 
explanation, Mary knew at once that her visitor was in 
some way connected with her own life. She rose quickly 
and came to the door, pressing her white face against the 
iron bars. 


LIFE. 


366 


“You are,” she said pathetically, “you are a friend, I 
know.” 

“I was his wife — once,” corrected Angela very gently, her 
hrows contracting with pain at the memory of that one short 
day’s blissful happiness. Mary stared through the bars, not 
fully understanding. 

“My heart has ached for you,” Angela went on, her sweet 
womanliness shining through her tender eyes, and she laid 
her hand over Mary’s. “I have wanted to help you, above all 
things. To do this, I have thought it best to give him his 
freedom. I have been his wife for two years. I was a little 
child when we were married and we did not care for each 
other. It was only to comply with my guardian’s will; so 
you see, we were husband and wife in name only. Wilfrid 
loved you, and you were truly his wife in the sight of God. 
And so, we have applied for a divorce, that he may marry 
you and right your bitter wrong; and you will be happy yet, 
despite all your suffering.” 

Surely the recording angel with his tears blotted out the 
lie, so bravely told by Angela ! Mary’s face was transformed, 
its shining radiance fully repaid Angela for all the hours of 
bitter agony she had endured in making this sacrifice of 
self. 

“He — loves me ?” the poor, little prisoner’s voice was 
choked and almost unintelligible with delight. 

“Yes, — he could not marry you before, because he was 
bound to me,” said Angela, smiling sympathetically. “But, 
as soon as I knew, I promised to free him, and he said he 
would come straight home and marry you.” 

“You are very good and very beautiful,” said Mary, 
stretching out her arms in a futile effort to embrace her 
benefactress. “And he will come home, come to me, to me! 
But, oh God,” she cried, starting back ; her whole body grow- 
ing rigid, “what will he say when he knows — when he 
knows — that his little one is dead — and that I, its mother, 
killed it!” 

“And he is coming back,” she went on wildly, “perhaps. 


356 


LIFE. 


counting the moments until he shall clasp it in his arms. 
And I shall have to tell him I am a murderess! And even 
he cannot bring my baby back, cannot make its eyes stop 
burning mine, cannot make its little hands stop coming 
from out of the blackness of the waters and trying to clutch 
at my heart.” 

Angela, frightened and trembling at the frenzied girl be- 
fore her, shrank back in nervous dread and caught Mrs. 
Mason’s hand. 

“Go, and wait for me at the end of the tier,” said Mrs. 
Mason in a low voice. “I cannot leave her now, but I will 
come to you soon.” 

While Angela waited, she was joined by the prison matron, 
who suggested that she walk around the tier and see the 
other inmates. This she did, and was just leaving the 
women’s pen, when Mrs. Mason joined her. 

“What is it, my dear,” she asked, noticing Angela’s look 
of horrified dismay, and partly guessing the cause. 

“They jibed at me,” said Angela, “and one called me names, 
while another stuck out her tongue at me. And one reached 
out through the bars as far as she could and struck at me, 
while the others laughed. I did not mean to otfend them; 
why did they get angry? It — it almost frightened me.” 

“Those pen prisoners are often a pretty hard lot,” said 
Mrs. Mason, sadly. “They are generally committed for 
petty larceny, drunkenness, fighting or some such minor 
offenses, and are much less well-behaved than the more 
serious criminals. Of course, there are exceptions. There 
is one poor, little thing in there now, that I am working to 
set free. She is a foreigner, a Pole, and cannot speak one 
word of English. She is accused by the woman to whom she 
was hired, of striking her baby. When she dismissed her 
for that offence, the woman claims she took some valuable 
toilet articles away with her. But I cannot believe she beat 
the child. She doesn’t seem to be of that kind at all, and she 
is so absolutely ignorant and friendless, poor girl, she cries 


LIFE. 


367 


all the time. She is a good Catholic, goes to mass regularly, 
the matron says, and so I am doing what I can for her.” 

As they were passing out the matron called: 

“Oh, Mrs. Mason, the captain^s gone again.” 

“Is that so ?” said Mrs. Mason, joining in the other wo- 
men’s hearty laugh. 

“Yes, and we miss him dreadfully. No one to work 
around for us now.” 

“Who is the ‘captain’?” asked Angela. 

“A nice, well-mannered fellow whose only fault is a ter- 
rible semi-annual spree when his wife regularly has him com- 
mitted to the Tombs for all sorts of alleged misdemeanors. 
Then, in about a week, she comes howling round to get 
him out, and keeps us all busy working for his release. We 
all do our best for his sake, for he’s so clever about the place, 
so orderly and obedient, that every one likes him.” 

“How awful to think of a woman being the cause of her 
own husband coming here!” said Angela. 

“My dear girl,” said Mrs. Mason, kindly, “there are a great 
many ‘awful’ things I hope you will never know.” 

Angela smiled faintly. She was wondering what could be 
more awful than her own experience and Mary’s. She 
thought of the poor, young girl, in the cell above, her life 
wrecked irretrievably, of the terrible sacrifice she had been 
called upon to make of all that was most dear to her. She 
thought of Julian’s anguished, well-nigh broken heart, and 
with a convulsive pang of agony, recalled the bowed head and 
haggard face of the man she loved best in all the world, and 
the hot tears welled up into her eyes, blotting out from her 
sight the prison walls and its sad inmates. 

It was a fortunate thing for Angela, at this moment, that 
a practical illustration of the fact that tragedy and com- 
edy are twin sisters, was given her. She and Mrs. Mason 
were turning into the entrance hall, when an Irishman, with 
wild, blue eyes, his red hair unkempt, his face earnestness 
itself, placed himself in their way. 

“Plaze, ma’am, be ye Miss Mason?” 


358 


LIFE. 


“I am,” answered she, endeavoring to suppress a smile at 
the queer figure who addressed her. 

“How in hell can oi get out of here?” he asked, with eager 
tone, all unconscious of the incongruity of his language and 
appeal. 

“What was your offence?” asked Mrs. Mason, still strug- 
gling to maintain her composure. 

“Sure, an’ oi got drunk, just plain drunk, and the judge 
gave me six months fer it,” he replied, with an injured air, 
at the unfeeling injustice of the law. 

“Can you give me any references as to your previous good 
character? If you can, I will see what I can do for you,” 
said the Tombs Angel, kindly. 

“Damn the riferinces oi could give,” replied the little 
Irishman. 

The good women could control her amusement no longer. 

“You are honest, at any rate,” she said, laughing heartily. 
“I will do what I can for you, to-morrow.” 

At her assurance the little man’s eyes grew a shade less 
wildly indignant, and his red crop, which had seemed to 
stand on end with excitement during the interview, lay in 
damp curls about his freckled forehead. 

“Sure,” he remarked, as she joined Angela and went out, 
“sure, but she’s divilish gude for a woman.” 

“Shall you be able to help him?” asked Angela, when they 
had passed out of ear-shot. 

“Oh, yes. The penalty in his case is only five days,” 
answered Mrs. Mason. 

“Then how came he to be sentenced for six months ?” quer- 
ied Angela, in surprise. 

“Oh, well, in those cases a good deal depends on the humor 
the judge happens to be in when they are brought up,” re- 
plied her companion, smiling a little. 

“Is there really so little justice in law,” said she. “I am 
beginning, of late, to wonder if there is justice in anything, 
and sometimes think there is not. We so often see the inno- 
cent suffer while the guilty go free. There was a time when 


LIFE. 


359 


I thought that even if one did not receive punishment of the 
law, that their consciences made them suffer in proportion 
to the offense, but I don’t believe even that any more. It 
seems to me that even innate virtues, conscience and natural 
affections are distorted and go for naught in these days. 
New York is a veritable Sodom.” 

^‘There are elements in all large cities, my dear, which 
seem to make them more wicked than other places on the 
globe — but as a matter of fact, human nature is pretty much 
the same all over the world,” said Mrs. Mason. 

“Yes, I know its elementary instincts and passions are, 
but you must acknowledge that the development of character 
and desires are much greater and vary morally and intel- 
lectually in different countries,” said Angela. 

“Yes, you are right there,” admitted the older woman, 
“and New York is not Paradise by any means.” 

“I have visited nearly every large city in the world,” said 
Angela, “and I find New York the hardest, the coldest, the 
most unkind. The worship of the Almighty Dollar has en- 
tirely eliminated the worship of Almighty God and His pre- 
cepts. That, I suppose, accounts for its wickedness. A 
people who never look to anything higher than their own 
base natures, forgetting that the sun shines above their 
heads while they grovel on their knees for the pennies on 
the ground. What more can be expected of them? Their 
eyes are only for the glitter of the precious metal, their ears 
for the jingling of it in their money bags! Ah, there is no 
sweeter music to them and they dance to it, one and all, 
from janitor to millionaire, with the same devotion and de- 
sire as the gaily decked Italian women to the music of their 
tambourines.” 

Angela parted with Mrs. Mason at the corner of the street. 
Somehow, her own burdens were lighter in the broad com- 
panionship of this woman who tried to lighten the woes of 
weak humanity by sympathy, if she could give no more. 

On her way home she stopped to see Julian and tell him of 
her visit and its effect on Mary. They had become warm 


360 


LIFE. 


friends, these two. His manliness and Christian fortitude 
were just what she needed to lean upon, and her sweet, brave 
womanliness was a healing balm to his seared and broken 
heart. 

Aunt Betsy answered the ring of the front door bell. The 
old lady’s eyes were red from weeping and Angela, quick to 
notice her outward signs of grief, placed two loving arms 
around her neck, implanted a sympathetic kiss upon her 
wrinkled cheek and asked in a voice, filled with compassion, 
the cause of all her trouble. 

“Its Master Julian and a hoc-shun-eer,” whimpered the 
old woman, her eyelids blinking as the tear-drops again be- 
gan to appear. 

“An auctioneer,” questioned Angela, wonderingly. 

“Yes, he’s h’up stairs now ‘h’appraisin’ the furniture’ as ’e 
calls it. But h-instead o’ praisin’ it, — ’e’s a sayin’ h-every 
thing -e can agin it! My, Miss H’ Angela, I never dreamed 
of ’ow poor Master Julian would ever be reduced to sell his 
little h’all.” 

“He is selling his furniture ? Is reduced in circum- 
stances? What is the matter, aunty?” asked Angela, in 
alarm. 

“Oh, it’s h’all for the trial. Miss H’ Angela — the trial of 
the h’unfortunate Mary,” replied the old woman. “Dear 
Master Julian ’as ’is ’art set on gettin’ ’er free. To do it 
’e’s a-sellin’ of ’is furniture now, and if it would ’elp matters 
h’any, I do believe ’e’d sell ’is coat and ’at and go bare- 
’eaded and sleevless to ’is church.” 

“Can I go to him?” asked Angela. 

“I see no objections. Miss,” replied Aunt Betsy; “you’ll 
find ’im in the front room, and please tell ’im, w’on’t you, 
not to be too ’asty with the selling; charity and lovin’ kind- 
ness is no doubt werry h’estimable, but to be ’omeless would 
be ’orrible.” 

“He shall not be homeless, aunty,” said Angela, as she ran 
up the stairs. 

“Bless yer little ’art,” she heard from below, as she 


LIFE. 


361 


hastened into the front room, where she found Julian and a 
little, old man, with ill-fitting clothes, eagle eyes and a 
Semitic face. 

^^Oh, my tear Mr. McDonald,” the little man was saying, 
at the time wringing his hands and shrugging his shoulders 
until they were nearly level with the top of his bald pate; 
^^de tings, really, are not vorth it. I might have to keep 
dem in my shop for years, und den not get halluf de price 
you ask. Besides, de times are hard, you know; s^help my 
goodness, I can only give you sixty tollars for de lot.” 

“Why, they cost me several hundred,” argued Julian. 

“You vas a goot man, and of course, you speak de truth, 
but you vas greatly imposed upon, if you vasn’t I hope I may 
drop dead until de day after to-morrow,” solemnly announced 
the second-hand furniture dealer, and his face really looked 
as if he were sorry for the young clergyman. 

“What is the meaning of this ?” asked Angela, whose pres- 
ence had been unnoticed by both men. 

The merchant bowed, his thick lips broadening into a 
sickly smile that revealed his toothless gums. To Angela 
his entire appearance became repugnant and horrible. 

Julian appeared more careworn than usual, and did not 
attempt to answer his visitor. The silence lasted only a few 
seconds, but they were painful moments to the warm-hearted 
Angela, who continued: 

“Oh, I know all about it, and I am here to stop the sale. 
I have a friend who wishes to buy everything, and he has 
commissioned me to pay you five times as much as has been 
offered you by this squeezing J ew.” 

“De Jews are pretty good peoples to come to ven you^re 
broke,” announced the little man with a vicious grin. 

“Angela, the Master was a Jew, remember that,” said 
Julian, quietly. 

“Well, at any rate. He didn^t look and act like this one,” 
replied the girl angrily. “Of course, there are good Jews 
and bad ones, just as there are good and bad in every race 
and class on earth; oh, stop your squirming,” she demanded. 


362 


LIFE. 


stamping her little foot as she glanced at the furniture man, 
who was stroking his hands and bowing his bald head in 
silent protestation. ^‘Stop it, I tell you,” she cried again, 
and then opening the door, continued, ^‘if you do not go at 
once, much as I do not wish to soil my hands by allowing 
them to touch such a wriggling worm, I shall be compelled 
to box your great big ugly ears.” 

‘‘Oh, tear, I didn’t expect such treatment in a parsonage, 
und IVe been vasting the whole blessed morning ven I might 
have been making monish elsevere,” said the little man. 

Angela made one step towards him, but he wisely ran out 
into the hallway, and the next instant Angela had slammed 
the door behind him. 

“Now, my dear brother,” she said excitedly, but kindly; “I 
should like to know how it is that you dare sell your little 
things that help to make life pleasant, wdthout first consult- 
ing me. You need this money for Mary’s trial, I under- 
stand ?” 

“Yes.” 

Julian had turned away and was looking absently through 
the window as he spoke. His voice was very sorrowful, and 
his thoughts were evidently in the little prison cell, where 
Angela had seen Mary so short a time before. 

“How much do you require ?” she asked. 

“All that I can get,” he answered, as he turned his plead- 
ing face to hers. 

“For what?” she asked. “You, yourself, are acting as her 
attorney. What other costs are there to be considered?” 

“I have spent all that I could rake and scrape together in 
furnishing meals for her and trying to make her comfort- 
able while in prison,” he replied; “but I need so much more 
for another purpose.” 

Into his eyes there stole a look of ineffable shame, the 
lofty-minded, high-souled man seemed to be self-conscious 
of disgrace, and hung his head. 

Angela was quick to notice it, and asked; 

“What other purpose?” 


LIFE. 


363 


“Angela, what I am going to say to you, I would tell no 
other living person. You are the only one in whom I dare 
confide,” said Julian, sinking into a chair and fixing his eyes 
upon the carpet as though he were afraid to look into An- 
gela’s face. “I would have Mary escape from the punish- 
ment of her sin, even at the sacrifice of honor, and no matter 
what may be the cost,” he continued. “The watchman of the 
reservoir is the only witness of her crime. I would pay him 
any sum he asked to go away, so that he could not testify 
against her; I would bribe the jury, the judge, the prosecu- 
tor — I would pay the prison warders to let her escape; there 
is nothing in the world that I would not do to set her free. 
She was so good, so pure, before this trouble came, and it is 
not right that she should suffer.” 

His head was bowed on his folded arms on the arm of the 
chair in which he sat, and a convulsive move of his shoulders 
showed that he was overcome by the deepest emotion. 

Angela crossed to him and laid her hand on his bowed 
head. Something, perhaps his position or his resemblance 
to one she had so dearly loved and which she had never 
noticed before, made the action involuntary. 

At her gentle touch, suggestive of so much sympathy, 
Julian broke down completely, and a storm of sobs shook his 
wasted frame as he wept the bitter tears of a strong man. 

Angela, full of pity, such as mayhap fills the hearts of our 
guardian angels when they see our weakness beneath too 
heavy loads, sank down on her knees beside him, the soft 
pressure of her gentle hands soothing his aching head, and 
thus she waited until the tempest had passed. 

As he raised his head and his aching eyes met hers, she 
asked : 

“Even if it were possible to accomplish what you say, 
could you, a minister of God, a preacher of His divine com- 
mandments to sinning men, an example before them of all 
that is good and sacred in His holy teachings, fall so low as 
to stoop to falsehood, perjury, deceit and the necessary loss 
of honor ? A thousand mistakes of man’s justice or the early 


364 


LIFE. 


taking off of a hundred erring lives would not weigh in the 
balance against one such fearful fall.” 

^‘Wilfrid, your husband, my brother, is the real criminal 
and Mary is the martyr, the scape-goat who suffers in his 
stead. The laws of man in such a case as this are criminal, 
unjust and wicked, and I would right poor Mary’s wrong,” 
said Julian. 

“God seeth all things, and moves in most mysterious 
ways His wonders to perform,” replied Angela. “Out of 
Mary’s weakness He may build a nobler and sinless soul who 
shall be a future, mighty instrument of good. His own Son 
perished on the cross that men might live — and who knows 
but that many women, learning of poor Mary’s fall and bit- 
ter suffering, may hesitate and fly from such a fate, live 
purer lives and have cause to bless her for the lesson she has 
taught them?” 

Julian rose to his feet. The look of pain was disappear- 
ing, and in its place a purer and holier light was in his 
features. 

“God bless you, Angela,” he said. You are infinitely 
stronger and nobler than I am, a far better woman than I 
am a man. The Master has seen my weakness, and sent you 
to me as a ministering angel. Remain with me, won’t you? 
Your constant presence only can prevent me from falling be- 
neath this burden, which is greater and heavier than I can 
bear.” 

And Angela promised that she would. 

Thus it happened that Angela went to live at the little 
parsonage, and during the dreadful days that preceded the 
eventful trial her tender ministrations were a source of 
great comfort to Julian. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


IN THE COURT OP GENERAL SESSIONS. 

Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted ! 

The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn. 

In wonder and in scorn. 

Thou weepest days of innocence departed. 

Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move. 

The Lord to pity and to love. 

— Lupercio Leonardo Argensola. 

The room in the Court of General Sessions, in which 
Mary’s trial was to be heard, was crowded as it had seldom 
been before. 

For many days the daily papers, always anxious for a 
readable story of sin and suffering, had told and retold the 
history of the unfortunate woman’s crime, now made doubly 
interesting by reason of the sensation caused when it became 
known that a young Episcopalian clergyman, in whose house 
she formerly had resided, would appear as attorney for the 
prisoner and would speak in her defense. 

As is usual when something abhorrent must be told, the 
majority of the large assemblage was made up of the weaker 
sex. The church woman was crowded next the fille de jois, 
and feared not contamination, so long as she could see and 
hear all that was going on; ladies in ultra-fashionable rai- 
ment sat next to chambermaids and peddlers’ wives, and 
cared not if their own dainty clothing became soiled by 
contact with the greasy or dirt-worn rags of their neigh- 
bors, if they only had a chance to hear something that might 
shock their dainty (?) sensibilities. For a diversified and 
motley crowd of strangely curious, sight-seeing and scandal- 
loving humanity, there is no place on earth like the interior 
of a criminal court room. 


366 


LIFE. 


The well-groomed and black-gowned judge sat in his 
cushion-backed easy chair, high above the lawyers, prisoner, 
witnesses and jurymen, extremely owl-like in his vain at- 
tempt to look wiser than his fellow-beings. At his right and 
a little lower down (probably so that he might not presume 
to interfere with the dignity of his superior above), sat the 
clerk of the court, busy with his papers.. The witness-chair 
at the left of the judge was still empty, for the work of 
swearing in the jury had just been completed. The “twelve 
good men and true” sat in their box just beyond the witness 
chair, some with a dignified and solemn mein, as if they had 
a serious duty to perform ; others appeared to be smiling and 
light-hearted, as if they had come to witness a play, and 
only a few of them seemed to realize that they were there to 
either give or take a human life. 

Mary St. John sat well down to the right of the judge, 
between Julian and a famous criminal lawyer, whom he had 
engaged to assist him in the case. She was neatly attired, 
was very pale, seemed to be entirely oblivious to everything 
going on around her, and appeared to be perfectly resigned to 
her fate. Close behind her ^at Angela and the court officer 
who had charge of the prisoner. 

Julian looked paler and more worn than we have hitherto 
seen him. He still wore his clerical coat, emblematic of his 
sacred office, and his quiet demeanor and dignified bearing 
formed a striking contrast to the quizzical and alert counte- 
nances of many of the bustling newspaper reporters, among 
whom was our old friend, the Major, and to the ferret-eyed, 
calm and unpleasant face of the grey-whiskered assistant dis- 
trict attorney, all of whom sat at the same and an adjoining 
table. 

The bill of indictment, as drafted by the public prosecu- 
tor, was now read by the clerk of the court, and to his ques- 
tion as to the guilt or innocence of the prisoner, Julian stood 
up and in a quiet voice responded : 

“On behalf of the prisoner, I plead — not guilty!*' 

The stern voice of the judge was then heard. 


LIFE. 


367 


^^Very well, gentlemen, we shall now proceed.” 

The assistant district attorney then rose to his feet. 

‘Tf your honor please,” he began; although he turned his 
attention almost immediately to the jury, ^‘it is the intention 
of the State to show by the evidence that upon October the 
26th, last, in the county and State of New York, this defend- 
ant, Mary St. John, did wilfully, criminally and with malice 
aforethought, cause the death by drowning in the reservoir 
in Central Park, of her infant child, as has been set forth 
in the indictment; in order to do this, we shall bring into 
this court competent and reliable witnesses, who will prove 
the fact that the child was found drowned, and that the de- 
fendant was the mother of the child. I expect further to 
prove that this defendant has been a depraved woman, that 
she led a sinful and wicked life, that her child was illegiti- 
mate and that she accomplished its destruction in order that 
she might hide her infamy and in all probability return, 
again, to a career of shame. 

^^So firmly is the district attorney’s office convinced of the 
guilt of the prisoner at the bar,” continued the prosecutor, 
^^that it almost seems senseless to employ the valuable time 
of these gentlemen of the jury, and of yourself, your honor, 
in a hearing of this case. Perhaps,” and the prosecutor turned 
toward Julian and the prisoner, “the State, with the consent 
of the Court, might be inclined to clemency, and accept a 
plea at manslaughter, by allowing the defendant to withdraw 
the plea at 'not guilty to the indictment for homicide’ and 
plead 'guilty to manslaughter.’” 

The shrewd, little criminal lawyer was upon his feet in 
an instant. Before Julian had an opportunity to say a 
word, he was replying to the assistant district attorney in 
cool, incisive tones. 

To Julian, this half promise, veiled as it was with the 
qualification, “might,” came as a ray of hope, as he realized 
the vast gulf of years which separated a sentence upon the 
charge of manslaughter from that of murder in the first 
degree. The criminal lawyer, who had battled so often for 


368 


LIFE. 


the lives of his clients in this same room, knew it to be but 
a trick — an invitation for the defence to make an acknowl- 
edgement of its weakness, which would be certain to influence 
the jury against the belief of Mary’s innocence, should the 
least hesitancy be shown. 

“The assistant district attorney is very kind,” said the 
little lawyer, with biting sarcasm; “more considerate, I fear, 
than he would be were he so certain of the strength of the 
State’s case against this young girl. We prefer to allow the 
indictment to stand, and to have the case heard solely upon 
its merits.” 

It was a bold play. But it was by making a single throw 
of the die of Fate, with the lives of his clients as the stakes, 
that the shrewd little man had gained a world-wide reputa- 
tion for his cleverness in a court of criminal law. As he 
was absolutely certain that nothing could be gained by tem- 
porizing, he had taken the bit in his teeth. 

The shot told. There was a slight buzz of approval from 
the feminine portion of the audience, which might have 
been caused by admiration of the course pursued by the de- 
fense, or which might have resulted from a feeling of thank- 
fulness that the horrible details were not to be omitted, and 
what had promised to be a sensational trial, collapse into 
nothingness. Even the jurymen looked with awakened inter- 
est at the frail figure of the prisoner, and our friend, the 
Major, winking and smiling at the newspaper men around 
him, could not resist the temptation to murmur: 

“Good! Score first blood for the defense.” 

The court rapped for order, and the assistant district at- 
torney glanced at the little bald-headed attorney, his ad- 
versary in many a legal battle, and smiled grimly. The 
smile was his acknowledgement that he had lost the first 
trick. 

“Let us continue with as little delay as possible, gentle- 
men,” said the judge at this juncture. “I presume all of the 
witnesses are present?” 

The attorneys bowed. 


LIFE. 


369 


“Then call them, and let us proceed with the evidence,’’ 
said the judge. 

The assistant district attorney turned to a court officer. 
He handed him a slip of paper upon which were written the 
names of his witnesses, and a moment later the old watch- 
man of the reservoir was before the clerk with uplifted hand, 
taking his solemn oath to tell “the truth, the whole truth and 
nothing but the truth.” The watchman took the stand, and 
in a few words told the story of his discovery of Mary upon 
the embankment in Central Park. His recital did not differ 
materially from that he had given at the preliminary hear- 
ing, but proved the facts necessary to establish the crime; 
and after he had identified a few photographs and diagrams 
of the spot where the alleged murder had been committed, 
and had positively pointed out Mary as the woman who had 
been the central figure of the tragic event, he was turned 
over to the attorneys for the defence for cross-examination. 

“What distance were you from the defendant at the time 
the infant fell into the reservoir ?” asked the criminal lawyer. 

“About as far as from me to you,” replied the witness, 
indicating a distance of about twelve feet. 

“And you plainly could see all that transpired?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You say you immediately caught hold of the defendant?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What did she do — struggle?” 

“Yes, sir — struggled mightily.” 

“Was there anything in her actions that led you to be- 
lieve that she intended also throwing herself into the 
water ?” 

The assistant district attorney sprang to his feet. 

“I object, your honor,” he cried. “Whatever ideas the 
witness may have entertained as to the inner workings of 
the prisoner’s mind, or to her intentions, are merely personal 
impressions, and have no bearing upon the case. The wit- 
ness is here to state facts, and not for the purpose of in- 
dulging in theories.” 


370 


LIFE. 


“I do not think, your honor,” said the little criminal law- 
yer in a voice whose sarcasm was only thinly disguised, ‘^that 
the court will construe the fact that the defendant was en- 
deavoring to climb the railing, which protects the reservoir, 
to be the theory, our friend from the district attorney’s bril- 
liant staff, would have us believe.” 

“The ‘brilliancy’ in the district attorney’s office, at least, 
is not all reflected from the tops of our craniums,” retorted 
the prosecutor, looking pointedly at the shining poll of the 
little attorney. 

“Just so,” replied that gentleman, calmly; ignoring an 
audible titter in the audience, and carefully studying the 
prosecutor’s beard. “In the district attorney’s office every- 
thing runs to gray matter, and they select those who have 
plenty of it on their chins, and not in their heads.” 

The court room roared, and the court officer rapped sharply 
for order. Even the stern-faced judge could not repress a 
smile, although he promptly rebuked the belligerent attor- 
neys. 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen; kindly remember where you are,” 
he said, severely. “A little more decorum would be more in 
keeping with the business before us.” 

The attorneys apologized to the judge — ^but not to each 
other, and the court continued: 

“Will the counsel for the defense outline what he expects 
to prove by his last question?” 

“I expect to prove, your honor, that this defendant, weak 
and ill physically and exhausted mentally, was of unsound 
mind at the time of this — this accident, and that she was 
endeavoring to end her own suffering — to commit suicide, if 
you will, at the time the infant was precipitated into the 
water. No sane person would attempt suicide, and no one 
mentally unbalanced could be held as responsible for pre- 
meditated murder. By answering my question the witness 
may be able to shed a great light upon these two inseparable 
facts.” 


LIFE. 


871 


‘^The defense has never requested an inquiry into the san- 
ity of the prisoner,” interposed the proscutor. 

‘Tor the very good reason,” retorted the lawyer, “that any 
inquiry held to-day would not reveal a criterion by which we 
could satisfy the court as to the conditions as they existed 
at the time in question. The actions of the girl are the 
only things by which we may judge. I repeat the question.” 

“The witness may answer,” was the decision of the court. 

“Well,” said the old watchman, carefully weighing his 
words, “all I can say is that, according to my way of think- 
ing, if I had been about a minute later, there wouldn’t have 
been any trial.” 

“That will do,” said the little lawyer, quietly, satisfied that 
he had impressed the jurors with the one point upon which 
he, with the wealth of his wide experience to guide him, felt 
that a plea for clemency could be based. The old watchman 
left the stand a trifle regretfully; he would have liked to say 
more in favor of Mary, if they had only given him the 
chance. 

The next witnesses called by the assistant district attorney 
were the two policemen who had assisted the watchman at 
the time Mary had been arrested, and the matron at the 
Arsenal. Their testimony was not important, however, as 
they merely corroborated some of the details of the watch- 
man’s story. Then, to the surprise of everyone in the court 
room, the assistant district attorney announced that the 
State had concluded its direct evidence, and would rest its 
case. 

Many of the auditors were greatly disappointed. They 
had come, licking their chops in anticipation of a savory, if 
somewhat salacious morsel, and with the exception of one 
or two small clashes between the attorneys, the case had 
proven as quiet and uninteresting as a law-suit over a 
fence line in a country village. 

The attorneys for the defense seemed as greatly surprised 
as did the less interested ones in the court room. Mary 
alone remained calm. The little criminal lawyer had ex- 


372 


LIFE. 


pected that the prosecution would endeavor to weave an 
elaborate net of evidence around the prisoner. Yet here the 
case was rested, with a simple statement of facts — but cold, 
stern facts they were, he admitted. Stripped of their de- 
tails and the legal phraseology, the meaning of it all was 
that Mary had been seen placing the child upon the bank, 
and allowing it to roll, if not forcing it into the water. 

He calmly rose to his feet, and addressing himself directly 
to the jury, told them concisely what he intended to prove. 

^‘We shall show you, gentlemen, beyond even the shadow 
of a doubt,” he said, ^^that the prisoner at the bar, until she 
met her betrayer, was as innocent of evil as a babe upon its 
mother’s breast; that she was seduced and deserted by the 
man who wrought her ruin; that when she realized that she 
was to become a mother, she fled from her friends, and after 
her child was born, having no money, no shelter, no place to 
lay her head, under the fearful strain of this pitiable plight, 
her mind gave way and being no longer in the possession 
of her facaulties she was rendered unaccountable for her 
acts, and the fact of her seeking the destruction of her child 
was the result of this temporary insanity.” 

He then began calling upon the witnesses for the defense. 
He knew they really could prove nothing, and were sum- 
moned merely to attest to the good character of Mary prior 
to the fatal step which had cost her so dear. The witnesses 
were not even interesting to the general public, with the ex- 
ception of Mrs. Crowe, who had brought with her a vocabu- 
lary which caused judge, jury and spectators to gasp in 
astonishment. Yet even she could not tell anything which 
was really of value to the prisoner — a fact which the little 
attorney saw that the prosecutor realized, for that worthy, 
upon his cross-examination, contented himself by paying the 
good lady back in her own coin, with the single question, 
apropos of Mary’s visit to her home : 

^^While she was residing within your judicature, did you 
observe any idiosyncrasies which, if revealed, might have a 


LIFE. 


373 


tendency to add a modicum to the defendant’s compurga- 
tion?” 

For a second Mrs. Crowe sat breathless. She was certain 
the attorney had not consulted a dictionary within the last 
few minutes, and yet, for a time, that last word was a bit too 
much for her. Then she recovered her composure, looked the 
attorney square in the eyes and answered: 

‘‘Much that might lead to my personal condonation, but to 
say that it would aid in her exculpation might be hyper- 
critical.” 

And the prosecutor wisely said that the witness would be 
excused. 

Mr. Richard Crowe, Aunt Betsy, little Ned, his mother 
and many of Julian’s parishioners also testified to the prev- 
ious good character of the prisoner. Then Julian caused a 
stir in the court room, and an excited craning of necks, by 
calling upon Mary to take the stand in her own defense. 

In answer to the opening questions of her counsel, she 
said she was twenty years old, was born in England, and that 
her mother had separated from her father when she was a 
mere child. Her father was dead. She believed that her 
mother was still living somewhere in New York. 

“Your father died at sea, I believe,” questioned the little 
lawyer. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Were you present at that time?” 

“I was.” 

“In whose charge did your father leave you?” 

“In care of the Reverend Julian McDonald.” 

“Did you go to reside at his house?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What took place while you were there?” 

“I — I assisted in visiting the sick. I sang in the choir, 
and did all in my power to help him in his works of charity.” 

“While living in his house, did you form what may be 
termed an attachment of the heart — in other words, did you 
fall in love?” 


374 


LIFE. 


There was a pause. 

“Yes, sir, I—” 

“With whom?” 

Another pause. The prisoner did not reply. 

“You will answer the question, please, as I especially de- 
sire it answered,” said Julian. “Please state the name of 
the man with whom you fell in love.” 

“Wilfrid McDonald.” 

“Was he a visitor at the house?” asked the little lawyer. - 
“He was.” 

“Explain to the court what brought him there.” 

“He was a soldier in the Spanish war, returned home 
wounded from Cuba, and I helped to nurse him back to 
health again.” 

“And you fell in love with him?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And he with you?” 

“He said so.” 

“And you believed him ?” 

“At the time I did.” 

“Were you and Wilfrid McDonald guilty of a nameless 
sin ?” 

The prisoner hung her head in silent shame. 

“Answer my question, please.” 

“We were.” 

“When?” 

“On the first day of January of last year.” 

“And as a result of that sin you learned later that you 
would become a mother?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you go to this man and demand that he should marry 
you and make your child legitimate?” 

“I did.” 

“And his answer was?” 

“That he could not marry me, as he had a wife already.” 
“How many times did you see him after he learned of your 
condition ?” 


LIFE. 


375 


“Only once. He promised to do what he could for me, and 
then left the country, going to the Philippines.” 

“And you have never seen him since?” 

“No, sir.” 

Mary was then questioned about the details of her leaving 
Julian’s home, her search for employment, her illness, her 
removal from Bellevue to Mrs. Crowe’s, evading no part of 
her story up to the incident of the birth of her child. 

“Why did you leave the hospital so soon?” asked the little 
lawyer. 

“Because I did not wish to become a burden to those who 
had befriended me, and because I wished to go where no one 
who had known me in the past could ever find me.” 

“Did you seek for employment?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Will you please state to the court why you could obtain 
none ?” 

“It was on account of the child.” 

“Could you not leave it at home ?” 

“I had no home.” 

“No lodgings ?” 

“None.” 

“Had you no money?” 

“Very little. I could find no one who would care for my 
little one while I sought for work.” 

“Your supply of money soon became exhausted?” 

“Yes, sir. In a few days.” 

“And then?” 

“I went to the different charitable institutions and tried to 
leave my child with them, but none would receive it. I had 
no place to go. I and my child grew hungry. I became 
desperate. It seemed as if I had been deserted even by my 
God, and there appeared to be nothing for us to look forward 
to hut death.” 

“Can you recall the last incidents of the fatal tragedy in 
Central Park?” 

“No, sir; I remember only the bitter hours that pre- 


376 


LIFE. 


ceeded them. I remember that I was worn out with suffer- 
ing, starved, drenched to the skin with the rain that was fall- 
ing, that my tired limbs would hold me no longer. I remem- 
ber entering the park, — after that — nothing! The rest is a 
blank.’’ 

Her story was simple, convincing and straightforward, 
and on its conclusion she was taken in hand by the prosecut- 
ing attorney. 

“Were you ever arrested before?” he asked. 

“No, sir,” she replied. 

“Were you ever arrested for shop-lifting?” 

“No, sir.” 

“For street walking?” 

“No, sir; I was not.” 

“Who supported you after you left Mr. McDonald’s home ?” 

“I had some money of my own.” 

“In whose house did you sleep on the night of the day on 
which you left Mr. McDonald?” 

“In a lady’s house — she was a stranger.” 

“How did you happen to go there?” 

“I fell fainting on the street. She took me home in her 
carriage.” 

“Tell the court the nature of the place?” 

Mary’s face grew white; her nervous fingers grasped the 
arm of the chair. She was silent. 

Julian and his associate counsel whispered together. The 
prosecution had a surprise in store, a leaf in the chapter of 
Mary’s life of which they knew nothing. 

“I object to that question, your honor,” said the little law- 
yer, who saw that the subject to which the question referred 
was painful to Mary, and feared that to answer it might 
prejudice the chances of his client. 

“Upon what ground?” asked the court. 

“Upon the ground that the witness is not to be held respon- 
sible for the fact of her having been taken to some place 
while in an unconscious condition, and that while in this 
state she might have been conveyed into some resort which 


LIFE. 


377 


might -seem to the world to be a detriment to her character, 
even if she were guiltless of intentional wrong.” 

“The objection is sustained,” said the judge, and the as- 
sistant district attorney started upon a new tack. 

“After you left the hospital and could find no employ- 
ment, why did you not appeal to your friends?” he asked. 

“I was afraid, ashamed; they had been so kind to me, and 
I could not.” 

“Would it not have been better than to have murdered a 
helpless infant?” 

Mary winced as though she had received a blow in the face. 

“I had no idea of murdering my child,” she cried. “I 
could not have. If I had been possessed of the power of 
thought, such an act would have been impossible.” 

“If not possessed of the power of thought, how could you 
have found your way to the reservoir?” 

“I do not know. As I have said, that part of my life is all 
a blank. I remember nothing.” 

“Was it not your idea to dispose of the child so that you 
might be free to return to a life of infamy?” 

“Your honor, I protest,” exclaimed the little attorney, 
springing to his feet. “Such questions are more than grossly 
insulting, and I ask for my client the protection of this court 
— I ask for her, at least common decency of treatment.” 

The prosecutor smiled. 

“I propose to introduce in rebuttal to the testimony of 
this witness,” he said, “one whose testimony will prove the 
prisoner to be immoral and depraved.” 

Julian and his associate exchanged a glance of surprise at 
this statement, and both wondered who could be the person 
in whose statement the assistant district attorney placed 
such implicit confidence. Just then the voice of the judge 
interrupted their thoughts. 

“It is the desire of the court,” he stated, “to hear all the 
evidence which may have any bearing upon the issue now 
before it, but in response to the appeal of the counsel for the 
defense, the court feels impelled to state that, in his opinion. 


378 


LIFE. 


equally satisfactory results may be obtained by less harsh 
measures.” 

After this warning the prosecutor adopted a less aggres- 
sive tone, but the cross-examination was none the less search- 
ing and severe. The strain began to tell upon Mary, and 
finally she broke down under the ordeal. She was weeping 
softly when the prosecuting attorney finally ended the tor- 
ture by stating that he had finished with the witness. 

Julian announced that this closed the evidence for the de- 
fense, and the prosecuting attorney arose once more. 

“If your honor please,” he said, “the State will now call 
one witness in rebuttal, and it is my intention to show by 
this witness that the prisoner is not the model of virtue and 
propriety the defense has claimed.” 

The prosecutor spoke a few words to the court officer, who 
disappeared into the witness room. A moment later he es- 
corted into the court room a handsomely gowned woman of 
middle age. Both Julian and his associate looked at her 
with keen interest, and Julian wondered what part she had 
played in the drama which had surrounded his ward, as he 
was certain he never before had seen her. When the woman 
had mounted the witness stand, the prosecutor began a rapid 
fire of questions. 

“Your name?” 

“I am called Madame Baptiste.” 

“Is that your real name?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Will you please state your real name to the court?” 

“Mary St. John.” 

The sensation had come. The names of the witness and 
the prisoner were the same. Mary hid her face in fear; her 
attorneys seemed thunder-stricken, throughout tlie court 
room the deepest silence reigned. 

“Where do you reside?” asked the prosecutor. 

“At number , street.” 

“Is it a house of ill-fame?” 

“It is.” 


LIFE. 


379 


“Are you its owner?” 

“I was ” 

“Do you know the prisoner?” 

“I do.” 

“Are you related to her?” 

“I am.” 

“In what manner?” 

“I am her mother.” 

“Was she ever an inmate of your house?” 

“Not an inmate. She slept there one night.” 

“How did she come there?” 

“I found her in a fainting condition, lying in the street.” 

“Drunk?” 

“No, sir; she had fainted.” 

“On what street did you find her ?” 

“On Twenty-ninth street, between Broadway and Sixth 
avenue.” 

“A block in which flourish many questionable resorts, fre- 
quented by women of your class, is it not?” 

“It is.” 

“At what hour did you find your daughter there?” 

“About midnight, or in the early morning.” 

“Are respectable women often found in that neighborhood 
at such an hour?” 

“Not very often.” 

“Nearly all ‘fast’ women, are they not?” 

“Nearly all. There are some exceptions, I expect.” 

“You do not think your daughter was one of the excep- 
tions to the general rule?” 

For the first time the prisoner looked at her mother. It 
was a pitiful, appealing glance, such as a wounded deer gives 
to the hunter who is about to draw his knife across its throat. 

“I believe my daughter to be as good and pure a woman as 
ever lived. She told me the story of her betrayal by one of 
those heartless scoundrels whose broken promises make hu- 
man wrecks like me. She fell, and, unlike her mother, rose 


380 


LIFE. 


above that fall. She refused to live upon the money that I 
offered her, calling it the wages of my sin.” 

The testimony of Madame Baptiste was beginning to tell 
for, rather than against the prisoner, and the prosecutor an- 
nounced that he had finished with the witness. 

The little attorney for the defense was too shrewd a crim- 
inal lawyer to overlook this fact. He merely emphasized the 
advantage he had received, however, by announcing to the 
court that he thought the witness had told her story in a 
clear, convincing manner, and that he hoped the prosecutor 
felt relieved, now that he knew the defendant had been safe 
in the care of a mother — under whatever conditions and cir- 
cumstances a mother — on the night he had thought her ac- 
tions called for so much criticism. He then excused the wit- 
ness without examining her. 

The evidence all being in, the attorneys then prepared for 
the battle of oratory which always winds up a murder case — 
the battle in which so many of the world^s great trials have 
been lost and won. Julian opened the argument for the de- 
fense, and his face was stern and set as he faced the jury. 

^^Your honor and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, rise 
to plead to you for the life of a young girl who has, I grant 
you, sinned against the laws of God and man, but who is, I 
claim and know, guiltless of any criminal intent. I think 
the court will agree with me that the prosecution has failed 
to introduce any evidence showing that the prisoner is guilty 
of felony, for felony applies only to that which is deliberately 
done in the consciousness that it is a crime. It has been 
proven that the prisoner is the victim of her own love and 
devotion to a man who wilfully and cruelly deserted her after 
robbing her of that which all women hold most dear in life — 
their honor — their right and title to the respect and love of 
those around them. 

^^Eobbed of honor, gentlemen, this poor girl fled from her 
friends and acquaintances in an attempt to hide her shame 
alone, while the author of her downfall fled to a foreign land. 
It has been shown that when her child was born she sought 


LIFE. 


381 


employment so that she might earn bread for herself and 
nourishment for her little one. She could find none. She 
had no place to go, she could find no shelter; ^Oh, it was 
pitiful, near a whole city full, home had she none.’ She 
tried to place her baby in a foundling’s home, and I record it 
to the disgrace of the city’s charitable institutions that none 
would receive it because its mother was not heartless enough 
to leave it starving on our city streets. For days, gentle- 
men, this poor girl went from house to house with her little 
one in her arms and sought for shelter that was everywhere 
denied them. What wonder that the tired brain gave way, 
and that she resolved upon self-destruction as the only means 
to bring relief to sufferings that were far worse than death? 

^^Gentlemen, the law is wrong that permits the author of a 
sin so great as this to roam the world in pleasure and in 
plenty, while his victim suffers all of the tortures of the 
damned, — and to my own shame be it said that this shame- 
less libertine, this thief of honor, this licentious seducer, 
this arrant coward, devoid of decency and self-respect is my 
own brother!” 

There was a stir in the court room, followed by a silence 
intense and terrible. The judge sat bolt upright in his chair, 
the newspaper men ceased scribbling, intent on listening, and 
the jurymen, with open mouths, waited for Julian to pro- 
ceed. 

‘^Human law looks no further back of action* than to in- 
tent, and attempts to deal only with acts,” continued Julian, 
^^and gentlemen, it is my aim to prove to you that Mary St. 
John, the prisoner at the bar, when she sought to drown her- 
self and child, was incapable of knowing what she did. In 
this case it is impossible to show intent. The prosecution, 
seeking the destruction of this poor, wounded dove, has de- 
clared her to be immoral and depraved. And why? Be- 
cause there is no place in our city for a decent woman who is 
homeless in the middle of the night. Gentlemen of the jury, 
what would your wives, your sisters or your daughters do if 
for some unknown reason they should be lost without an 


382 


LIFE. 


escort in this city’s streets at midnight? No hotel would 
receive them, and the only place they could go would be the 
station house, where their stories would not be believed, and 
where they would be treated as common women of the town. 
In such a plight as this, the prisoner found herself, and on 
such trifling evidence the State’s prosecutor — persecutor 
would be a more fitting term — dares to say she is depraved! 

^‘Depravity implies a fall from a better character, not only 
into wickedness, but into such corruption that the person 
delights in evil for its own sake, and even the State’s chief 
witness, her erring mother, stands boldly forth, giving to 
the State the lie! Many truthful and unbiased witnesses 
have told you of the noble character of this poor girl; one 
solitary act of folly is all that has ever sullied her young 
life: strip her of that, and no holier or better woman ever 
lived than she. Her life previous to her fall was spent en- 
tirely in doing good, in visiting the sick — helping the help- 
less and administering comfort to the poor who most needed 
help. I ask you if such a woman should stand condemned 
while the dissolute debauchee who is really the criminal is 
free to pursue his lecherous career of infamy and wicked- 
ness? Not one among you dare stand up and say she should. 
It is the man, gentlemen, who should be here, and not the 
prisoner! Justice cries aloud for him! Disgraced and 
shunned by all who know him, he should be where she is now, 
and were he ‘there I would myself denounce him, if he were 
ten times my brother !” 

It was an impassioned appeal, tears were in many eyes, and 
few of the spectators could resist the impulse of breaking 
into loud applause. 

The court officer rapped loudly for order, but order was not 
easily restored. 

Above the din was heard the shrill voice of little Ned. 

^‘Oh, Mr. Julian, here is your brudder, now.” 

And from the back part of the room, where he had sat so 
that he could see and not be seen, rose Wilfrid. He walked 
down the aisle, paying no attention to the court officer who 


LIFE. 


383 


tried to stop him, but strode rapidly forward towards Julian, 
whose face blanched to whiteness at the sight of him. 

‘‘I am here to take the prisoner's place,” he said. “Let 
justice be meted out to me. I deserve all of my brothers 
censure and the world’s scorn. I have come to receive the 
worst punishment the law can possibly inflict, if by so doing 
I can save the prisoner a single moment’s pain.” 

He was very pale, he spoke as one greatly humbled and 
abashed, and his head sank in shame upon his breast. 

To Angela he never had appeared so noble. To Mary he 
seemed to be the man of honor whom she had once cherished. 
To Julian, for the moment, he became the loving brother of 
years gone by, but as he gazed at him the memory of what 
he had done returned and bitter, unrelenting hatred took the 
place of love. He started toward him. 

“Coward ! Hypocrite !” he cried, but the hands of the little 
lawyer held him as in a vice, and the voice of the judge re- 
called him to his senses. 

“Officer, remove that man from the court room.” 

“But, judge; I am here to be arrested,” said Wilfrid, plead- 
ingly. “Condemn, imprison me. I confess' my faults. I 
am guilty. It is right that I should suffer.” 

“I would that I could punish you as you deserve,” said 
the judge, sternly. “I only regret exceedingly that there is 
no statute in the laws of this State at all applicable to your 
case. It is, I know, an outrage upon decency, that a self- 
confessed scoundrel of the lowest kind can come into our 
courts and ask for justice, when no punishment can be in- 
flicted. I am sorry that I cannot lock you up for the term 
of your natural life. Oflicer, remove him from the room.” 

Julian was upon his feet in an instant. Attention was at 
once drawn to him, and few even noticed Wilfrid as the 
court officer conducted him out through the doorway. 

“No law for the male culprit, while the woman he deceived 
and who has suffered many, many months, must continue to 
suffer on and on!” cried Julian, in a resonant voice, which 
rang clearly through the court room. “Truly, gentlemen, 


384 


LIFE. 


the men who deal in law and those who make our laws are 
veritable cowards! The true criminal goes forth, ordered 
out into the air, into the light and the sunshine of freedom 
by this self-same court whose minions, — armed guards with 
the moral support of the entire community behind them, — 
keep watch and ward lest his poor, trembling, confiding vic- 
tim should perchance escape some measure of the punish- 
ment which we men , — who call ourselves superior beings by 
divine right, — who make and unmake the law at our own 
sweet will, — have decreed, shall not be directed at our own 
selfish, pleasure-loving selves ! A sad commentary, truly, 
upon the vaunted justice and chivalry existing in this land 
of the hraveP 

He leaned upon a corner of the table and clutched hard 
at its edge in order to prevent the nervous twitching of his 
fingers; his voice was trembling with suppressed emotion, 
yet his tones cut the air with a stinging clearness which 
caused even some of the jurymen to wince, and to glance 
from one to the other as though they would shift the respon- 
sibility for existing conditions upon the shoulders of others. 

“We have just seen what a farce at times is justice!” con- 
tinued the minister-lawyer. “There is, of course, no doubt 
in the minds of any of us here, but that the court is right in 
his ruling; the fault lies within the law, and not in its inter- 
pretation. Yet the primary principle of law, if I remember 
my Blackstone, is simple justice. That is all we ask for, 
gentlemen — justice for this poor, weak, erring child! We 
do not even ask that this justice be tempered with mercy, 
for simple justice alone would suffice to free her from the 
fearful charge which now hangs over her like a black cloud, 
shutting out light, love and hope from her soul, unless with 
your verdict you acquit her, gentlemen. You have heard her 
story. It was a simple statement of fact, yet I must direct 
your attention to one part of it especially. That, gentlemen, 
is the part she did not tell — that awful blank when her mind 
had given way beneath a strain which, God be thanked, few 
mortals know. It was during this space of time, according 


LIFE. 


386 


to the prosecution, that this young woman calmly, and in a 
calculating manner, decided that she would murder the little 
one for whom she already had suffered so much! A likely 
story, gentlemen. The prosecution ask yoii for a conviction 
upon such a tissue of theory. I ask you for two things; I 
ask you to take with you into the jury room the picture of 
this young girl, — an outcast, alone in the world save for the 
nameless infant she clasped to her breast, starving, homeless, 
deserted,— buffeted not only by the elements, but by justice. 
I ask you, gentlemen — ” 

His lips moved, but no sound came from them, his hands, 
which had been raised in his impassioned appeal to the jury, 
dropped helpless to his sides, his feet seemed to give way 
beneath him, he tottered and almost fell. The little attorney 
and the newspaper men rose to their feet in readiness to ren- 
der any possible assistance, while the district attorney gazed 
on with an incredulous smile. With a supreme effort Julian 
steadied himself, again ; his hands were raised, again the lips 
opened, but they emitted no sound; again his former enemy, 
apoplexy, had seized him and he sank back in the arms of 
those around him, exhausted, powerless, and utterly in- 
capable of either thought or action. 

Intense excitement followed. A physician and court officers 
carried Julian from the room, the judge expressed his wil- 
lingness to dismiss the case- for the day, but the little attor- 
ney announced that he preferred to continue with the trial 
and stated that the defense would now consider its side as 
closed. 

The assistant district attorney, during and after Julianas 
collapse, had been watching the jurymen closely. When he 
arose to address them he began by smilingly saying: 

“For quite a few minutes this morning, gentlemen, I was 
almost at a loss to know whether I was in a court of law, or 
in a theatre. Suffice it to say that never in a playhouse have 
I witnessed anything more theatrical than that which we 
have just witnessed — a vain-glorious attempt on the part of 
13 


386 


LIFE. 


a young man, a brother of the attorney for the defense, en- 
tering a court room, bawling like a town-crier to attract at- 
tention to himself, and then stating in an ^I-killed-Cock- 
Robin^ voice, that the prisoner at the bar — who has been de- 
fended by his brother, mind you — is a pure and spotless lily, 
and is not to be censured for the cold-blooded murder of a 
helpless infant. 

“In the many years I have been associated with the district 
attorney's office I have seen many lines of defense submitted 
by the attorneys for those natural enemies of society and 
morals — the criminally depraved — but never, in all of my 
experience, have I seen anything to equal this, the conver- 
sion of a court of law into a theatre for the production of 
opera bouffe. Had the occurrence not been such a palpable 
insult to the intelligence of the court, and to your own in- 
telligence, gentlemen, it would have been sufficiently ridicu- 
lous to have been laughable ; as it is, we will lower the curtain 
gently over the melodramatic scene, and pass to things which 
are of more importance — the real facts of the case. 

“The State has shown these facts to exist: the child was 
murdered by drowning, and the murderess was its unnatural 
mother who sits in the prisoners’ bench under indictment for 
the heinous crime. All of the oratory in the world does not 
disprove these facts. We have been deluged with words re- 
garding the character of this murderess prior to her terrible 
crime. By the eloquent young man who comes here as the 
counsel for his brother’s mistress, we are told that the pris- 
oner at the bar is a ‘wounded dove.’ Possibly so, yet the 
State has proven that this wounded dove was able to flutter 
about the tenderloin in the wee sma’ hours of the morning, 
when all good little doves should have their heads tucked 
’neath their wings, wooing slumber in the family cote. 

“When you go into the jury room, gentlemen, you are to 
consider nothing but facts — the cold, hard facts in connec- 
tion with this wilful murder, and if you allow yourselves to 
be buncoed by the farce which was enacted here this morn- 
ing, I hope that as you leave the building, you may hear 


LIFE. 


387 


ringing in your ears the joyous chuckles of the principals in 
this carefully rehearsed bit of stage-craft — the self-sacrific- 
ing hero, who has nothing to sacrifice, and of the prompter, 
who so nobly rushed to the aid of the bounded dove, — his 
brother’s wanton.” 

It may be noticed that the assistant district attorney did 
not mince matters. Assistant district attorneys never do. 
They are in court to ‘‘protect the interests of the public,” 
and to the average assistant district attorney this means, 
secure a conviction, no matter what the cost. If one desires 
to hear a fellow-being well flayed — stripped of all honor, 
character and integrity, and held dangling and gasping be- 
fore the world in all of his or her nakedness, let that one 
enter the Court of General Sessions when a criminal case is 
being summed up by the State, and if he admires sarcasm, 
applied with an artistic touch, he will be well repaid. 

While the prosecutor had been speaking, the judge had been 
making a few notes upon a pad which lay upon his desk, and 
at the conclusion of the address he rose to instruct the jury. 

“After you have retired to the jury room,” he said in part, 
“you will carefully consider the evidence which has been in- 
troduced during the trial. You must not allow the mere 
fact of indictment or arrest to influence your judgment, but 
must remember that the prisoner always is supposed to be 
innocent until proven guilty. If, after mature deliberation, 
you decide that the evidence is not sufficient to substantiate 
the charge set forth in the indictment, you will return a ver- 
dict of not guilty. If, on the other hand, you consider that 
the facts submitted by the vState — and remember, you are 
to consider only the facts — show beyond the peradventure 
of a doubt that the prisoner at the bar committeed the crime 
of which she is charged, your verdict shall be — guilty! 

“Mr. Officer, conduct the jury to the jury room.” 


388 


LIFE. 


“That I may fetch thee 
Forth from this loathsome prison-house.” 

— Milton. 

After the jury had filed out of the court room, Mary was 
taken into the prisoner’s pen to await the verdict. 

Angela, who had visited her daily for many weeks, accom- 
panied her; and many were the cheering words of hope and 
consolation that she offered. But as time dragged on and no 
word came from the jury room, a dreadful uncertainty of 
doubt as to what the verdict might be, settled in the minds 
of these anxious ones. The tension became terrible. Would 
her sentence be death, imprisonment for life, or for a term 
of years? Or would she soon be free to leave the fearful 
prison and its unfortunat inmates to return to her friends 
who were anxious to welcome her again in the glad world 
outside ? 

The time had never appeared to pass so slowly as it did 
during the hours that followed. The moments of bitter wait- 
ing seemed like days. Why could not the twelve men who 
held the fate of the suffering one within their hands, agree 
to give her back her life? It was such a little thing to ask, 
a mere trifle^ to them, but oh, how sweet and infinite to her 
and to the friends who honored her! 

About seven o’clock the court officer came to the door and 
announced that the prisoner’s mother desired to see her. 
Mary expressed her willingness that she should come, and 
Angela rose to go, but at Mary’s request she remained, and a 
few moments later the mother was ushered into the pen. 

^^Mary,” she began, as she sat beside her daughter and took 
her hand in hers, “the terrible events in your life which 
led up to this trial, have made a changed woman of me, and 
[ have come to tell you of my resolve to lead a better life.” 

A sweet smile came into the prisoner’s troubled face. She 
raised her mother’s hand to her lips and pissed it. 

“The knowledge that my own sin has brought you to this 


LIFE. 


389 


has weighed heavily upon my mind for weeks,” she con- 
tinued. “Perhaps it is not our fault, dear, for my mother 
also erred; and thus you see, the sins of the parents are visi- 
ted upon the children, even to the third and fourth genera- 
tion. But if the future permits, we will both make amends 
for the past. Won’t we, darling?” she asked, as she stooped 
down and kissed Mary’s cheek. “For my part,” she con- 
tinued, “I have sold the house in which you found me, and 
have turned my back upon the old life forever.” 

“Mother, those are the sweetest words I ever heard,” said 
Mary, as she knelt at her mother’s feet. “They repay me for 
all my suffering, for they bring to me the knowledge that my 
misery has not been in vain, and if my sentence should be 
death, I would even go to the electric chair happy in the 
thought that my death had brought life to her whom I 
should, and always shall, love better than anyone else in all 
the world.” 

She was almost hysterical now. She was on her feet, her 
arms were wrapped tightly around her mother’s neck, her 
happiness had reached its most prodigious heighth. 

“Oh, you can never know the joy I feel when I realize that 
I have a real, true, honest, loving mother to care for me at 
last,” she cried. 

And Angela, at a distance, whispered softly to herself: 
“God moves in most mysterious ways His wonders to per- 
form.” 

Tears were falling from her eyes. In the sad history of 
Mary’s life she was beginning to see the guiding hand of 
God. Mrs. St. John was weeping also, but her tears brought 
happiness, for they were those of joy, the first of any kind 
that she had shed in many, many years. 

“I have come to you, Mary, to ask a great favor of you,” 
she said after a little while. “Can I speak in safety before 
your friend?” 

“Yes, mother,” replied the girl; “my entire life is as an 
open book to her. You may say anything.” 


390 


LIFE. 


“It is my earnest desire that I should suffer in your place,” 
the elder woman said. 

“Why should you?” Mary questioned. 

“Because it is right,” answered her mother. “I want you 
to exchange clothing with me. You can take my hat and 
cloak. It is a long one, and I have worn it here on purpose. 
Let me remain in your place, and you can walk out into the 
world a free woman. I have money enough for you to leave 
the country. You can go anywhere you wish. You are 
young, and can spend your life in doing good. You have 
everything before you, while I have nothing to live for but 
misery, and the memory of the sullied past.” 

“And do you think I could be happy, mother, knowing that 
you were bearing the burden of my sin,” asked Mary. “Do 
you imagine that I could rest contented in a foreign land, 
knowing that she who gave me life was suffering imprison- 
ment so that her daughter might be free? The knowledge 
that you have been willing and anxious to make so great a 
sacrifice, will be until death the greatest balm my broken 
heart can know. But I could not permit it, mother; even if 
its acceptance meant the saving of my immortal soul.” 

At eight o^clock it was announced that the jury, not hav- 
ing arrived at a verdict, would be locked up for the night. 
The judge and attorneys had gone to their homes and conse- 
quently no verdict would be rendered until the court opened 
at ten o’clock the following morning. Mary was ordered 
back to her cell and Angela and Mrs. St. John were com- 
pelled to leave the prisoner to her long and anxious night of 
bitter and expectant waiting. 

Angela returned at once to the little parsonage, where she 
found doctors and many friends who had turned voluntary 
nurses, sitting with blanched and terror-stricken faces around 
the bedside of Julian, who had not regained consciousness 
since his attack in the court room, six hours before. 

“Bless ’is dear ’art, — it’s too bad that he should be taken 
down on h’account of a girl like Mary as is so h’utterly h’un- 
worthy,” sobbed old Aunt Betsy. 


LIFE. 


391 


“lie always was subject to cachexia and marasmus and the 
morbific influence of the supervacaneous exertion prerequisite 
for this egregious trial has suscitated this atrophy, from 
which I do hope he will refocillate,’’ declared Mrs. Crowe. 

“The best man that ever lived! God needs him and will 
surely give him strength to see him through this illness,” 
said Richard, with a doleful shake of the head. 

“Of course, this is merely a trifling case of indisposition, 
don’t let it trouble you,” said the Major, in a sad attempt to 
cheer the others; but the unusually anxious look upon his 
face distinctly gave the lie to his words. 

“He is too good to die, he is !” cried little Ned. 

“Why could not God in His mercy have taken me and 
spared poor Julian? It is I who deserve to suffer, I who 
have wrought this cruel wrong!” declared Wilfrid, who was 
kneeling in abject misery at the foot of the bed. He did not 
see Angela, in fact since his own entrance, he had paid little 
or no attention even to the disapproving and angry looks 
cast upon him by the little group assembled there. The ef- 
fects of his crime, ever since its committment, had continued 
to grow and increase in their many horrors; they had not 
only been visited upon Mary and himself, but upon Angela 
and Julian, upon those nearest and dearest to him, and the 
knowledge of their suffering weighed upon him until it over- 
whelmed him and made the desperation of his misery com- 
plete. He was truly penitent now, — to have undone the past 
he would willingly have forfeited his liberty, his fortune, or 
his life. The last few months had changed him greatly and 
he, who in the past, would have run away from the conse- 
quences of his sin, was to-day ready and anxious not only to 
make atonement, but to repent in sackcloth and ashes, and 
from the bottom of his heart he yearned to bear the brunt of 
all upon his own shoulders, and now that Julian had been 
stricken down as a scapegoat, the intensity of his misery 
seemed more than he could bear. 

Shortly after Angela entered the room, Julian’s eyes 
opened. At first he smiled faintly at those around him, but 


392 


LIFE. 


when he recognized his brother Wilfrid, an angry look came 
into his face, his fingers twitched nervously and vainly he 
sought to rise from his bed. 

^^He must be very quiet, announced the doctor, gravely. 

“And so he shall,’’ replied Angela, as she sat beside him 
upon the bed. “Julian, do you know you are quite ill?” she 
continued, as she gently persuaded the patient to lay his head 
again upon the pillow, when she soothingly stroked his fever- 
ish brow. 

“111?” he answered, faintly. 

“Yes, the trial, — don’t you remember?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he replied. Then, again, he turned and looked at 
each one present, but the face he sought was not amongst 
them. 

“Mary?” he questioned, almost inaudibly; then a look of 
intense anxiety crossed his features as he murmured: “the 
jury — the verdict — ” 

“They have not agreed, as yet,” answered Angela, “there 
will be no verdict until to-morrow morning.” 

“God grant that they will acquit her — and may He in His 
boundless mercy send her here to me I” 

Great tears filled his eyes as the tired lids drooped and 
closed and the sufferer fell asleep. 

But his slumber was by no means dreamless. His over- 
strained and active brain toiled on with might and main, 
although his fatigued and weary body lay dormant and ex- 
hausted, — and those who watched beside him caught but a 
faint idea of his dream fancies, from the broken speeches 
that he uttered. 

********** 

At ten o’clock the next morning the court room was again 
crowded to its utmost capacity. 

“Have you arrived at a verdict, gentlemen?” asked the 
judge, as the jury filed into the jury box. 

“We have,” replied the foreman, who acted as spokesman 
for the twelve. 


LIFE. 


393 


^‘And what is the result of your finding?’’ asked the court. 

“Guilty,” replied the foreman. 

“And all of you agree upon this verdict?” inquired the 
court. 

“We do,” replied the foreman. 

“Very well. The clerk will record the verdict in the 
minutes of the trial. The jury is excused.” 

The full realization of the meaning of the verdict struck 
Mary a blow which seemed to freeze her brain. The fateful 
word, “Guilty,” shut out hope, life and love forever. Her 
mind grew powerless, dazed.- She knew that she was fast 
becoming incapable of reason. Every nerve and muscle of 
her body throbbed. Her breath came in short, faint gasps, 
and her heart beat so wildly that she was forced to press her 
hand against her side to still its dreadful pain. She rose to 
her feet, and gazed separately into the face of each of the 
twelve men, and the look of mingled horror and silent de- 
nunciation which they saw recorded upon her countenance, 
it is doubtful if either of them forgot until his dying day. 

“/ told you that 1 was innocent, and you would not be- 
lieve/* she said. 

They were the last words of reason that she uttered. Her 
body swayed to and fro for a single instant, and she fell back 
insensible into the arms of her mother. 

She was carried from the court room, across the “bridge of 
sighs” to her prison cell, in an unconscious state, and when 
her eyes opened again, her speech was incoherent and she 
herself shatterpated, crazed, stark, staring mad. 

Who was the criminal that day? The victim or the men 
who had sat in judgment on her? 

**-}f******* 

A few days later, Mary was taken from the Tombs to the 
insane ward in Hannemora Prison. 

She was sentenced for Life ! 


CHAPTEK XXXYIII. 


IN DANNEMOEA PRISON. 

Many and sharp the num’rous Ills, 

Inwoyen with our frame ! 

More pointed still we make ourselves 
Regret, remorse and shame. 

— Burns. 

The grim walls of Dannemora never looked grimmer or 
struck more hopeless a knell to a soul, than to Wilfrid’s, as 
he approached the iron-barred gate which had opened to ad- 
mit hundreds who would never go forth again. To his over- 
wrought imagination it seemed like the gate of hell, whence 
one entered never to return. As the keeper turned the key 
in the lock, the metallic grating struck a chill of terror to 
him, and he clinched his hands tight, a habit with him when 
under great stress of feeling. His permit examined and ap- 
proved, he followed the guard to the designated ward of that 
most horrible tribute to sin and crime, the prison of the mad 
wrecks of human intelligence. 

As he passed down the long tier of cells he grew sicker at 
every step. One shaven-headed, miserable, with drivelling, 
toothless gmns, pressed his white face hard against the iron 
bars and his black eyes, fierce with insane exultation, held 
Wilfrid’s for a moment, horror bound, as he laughed with 
the hollow mirth of a mocking fiend. 

^‘So ho,” he jeered, “you have come at last my fine friend — 
even you, a gentleman,'^ and he scraped a mocked obeisance 
behind his barred door. 

“Never mind him,” said the guard, noting with something 
of surprise, Wilfrid’s nervousness; “until a few months be- 
fore he was brought here, he was an honest workingman, a 
chef in some city restaurant; a rich man stole his wife, who 


LIFE. 


395 


was pretty. He followed them to a downtown hotel, one 
night, where he learned that they were registered as man and 
wife ; he went to the number of the . room assigned them, 
shot the man dead and fatally wounded his false wife. His 
sentence was thirty years, but he is stark mad and won’t live 
to see one-half of that time. Whenever a visitor of gentle- 
manly appearance comes here, it sets him going, for he im- 
agines him to be the murdered man who stole his wife.” 

“How horrible,” muttered Wilfrid, the perspiration stand- 
ing in cold beads upon his forehead. 

In the woman’s ward, a half-naked wreck of womanhood 
stretched her bony arms to their full length through the iron 
grating, pointing and shaking one forefinger at him. 

“Ah ha,” she jeered in a voice hoarse from much mad 
screaming, “I’m glad you’ve come, it is such as you who 
should be here, not we poor critters as suffers fer your gentle- 
man pleasures.” 

“She was formerly an honest factory girl,” said the guard, 
“pretty and ignorant. The owner’s son fancied her, took her 
away from her work to Hew York and they lived for a few 
weeks at a hotel as married people. He got tired and went 
back to his home and folks, leaving her a note and some 
money; she followed him and killed him in his bed. Her 
sentence was for life, but she went crazy when her baby was 
born; a few weeks after her conviction, the little one died 
and the doctors say that her case is hopeless.” 

The young man did not reply; his utterance was choked 
with a horrible fear and the dread of what awaited him at 
any moment. 

Suddenly, from the lower end of the corrider rose a voice, 
high-pitched and wavering, inexpressibly mournful, but 
withal sweet, like some broken lute which still owns one true 
string. 

“Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, 

Frae aff its thorny tree; 

And my fause luver stole the rose. 

But left the thorn wi’ me.” 


396 


LIFE. 


Wilfrid stopped rigid at the first note, then he reeled like a 
drunken man. 

The guard caught and supported him. 

“Perhaps you had better go back and wait a bit,” he sug- 
gested kindly. He knew that the number on the card in his 
h^nd corresponded with that on the singer’s cell, and ac- 
customed to reading human nature and features, he guessed 
the truth, for he knew the inmate’s story. “No, I would 
rather — go on,” stammered Wilfrid; making an effort to 
pull himself together. 

“It’s that second cell,” said the guard, despising the man 
beside him even while he pitied him. 

Just before reaching her barred door, Wilfrid stopped 
short for a moment as though to summon courage, then he 
went on and stood 'directly in front of the iron grating. 

Mary ceased singing and came to the door and pressed her 
white face quite close to it, her hands holding to the bars. 

She pushed her tumbled flaxen curls out of her way, and 
stood looking with shy curiosity at the man before her. 

Suddenly her gaze deepened, her blue eyes grew troubled 
with some vague working of her unwrought brain. 

Wilfrid, immovable, watched her in silent misery. 

All at once her pupils distended till her blue eyes were 
black with their wide horror. 

“Wilfrid !” she gasped. 

“Mary,” he answered; then her momentary flash of recog- 
nition vanished in an instant, and only an unreasoning sub- 
consciousness of his identity remained. 

“Do you know me ?” asked Wilfrid. 

Mary’s drooping lips quivered, “I know you will not let 
them kill me,” she said childishly, with mingled pleading and 
fear; “the chair — it is so awful,” with a shudder, “and I — I 
am afraid to die.” 

“No,” replied the man, “I promise you that you shall not 
be hurt in any way.” 

“I would stay and talk with you,” said the girl with 
pretty apology, “but J ulian is waiting for me to go to church. 


LIFE. 


397 


and I must get ready. He needs me and I would not anger 
him for the world.” 

She bowed and moved from the door back into the cell 
before an imaginary mirror on the wall and began arrang- 
ing her hair in strange fashions. Presently she turned to- 
wards him, shyly, “Do you know why I am going to the 
church on this beautiful morning?” she asked. 

“No,” replied Wilfrid, “I do not.” 

“Well, I will tell you; but you must not tell these people 
here.” She came to the door again and pressing her lips 
close to the bars, she whispered: “Julian is coming — and I 
am going with him to the church — the mission, you know, 
and Wilfrid will be there — and we will be married, and Mrs. 
Mason says that my baby is quite well and it will all come 
right when I am his wife. I am so happy, but Angela, she 
will be there, too; she is so beautiful, but her eyes look as 
if they often cried — because he did not love her, I suppose, — 
poor, poor Angela !” 

She shook her head mournfully, but the next instant her 
face dimpled with happy smiles. “Are you ready; shall we 
go?” she said, gathering up her short skirts and feeling her 
hair to see that it was quite properly arranged. “Oh,” she 
laughed merrily, “think of it, think of one forgetting her 
wedding veil on her wedding morn; all Cheltenham would 
laugh at me, and daddy, and Julian would laugh, too; and 
Aunt Betsy would scold. I must be beautiful to-day, you 
see, because I am to be a soldier^s bride. I used to read 
stories about soldiers’ brides and they would be unhappy be- 
cause their husbands must leave them to go to the wars. But 
I am not unhappy, I am happy, for my soldier will never 
leave me, he told me so himself.” 

Wilfrid looked hopelessly about him for some inspiration 
as to what to do or say. The girl had dropped her imagin- 
ary bridal veil over her tumbled curls and stood holding her 
dress with one hand, an imaginary bouquet in the other, 
waiting with shy, eager eyes in pretty impatience for the 
door to swing open that she might pass out. As the door 


398 


LIFE. 


did not open or the man before her move, she smiled. ^‘You 
are keeping me waiting, excuse me, but would you stand 
aside, it is a long distance to the church and I am so anxious 
to be there in time,’’ she said politely. 

“Where is your lover?” asked Wilfrid, who had heard 
somewhere that the vein of thoughts in an unbalanced mind 
could easily be diverted and turned into other channels and 
was most desirous of accomplishing such a change in regard 
to the girl before him. 

“He came to see me once, here in this place, but almost ’ere 
I knew him, he had gone;” she began to cry softly and sat 
down disconsolate on the side of her little prison bed. 

“Do you think he will come again?” she asked, raising her 
anxious eyes to his. 

“Of course, he will; he will come one day and take you 
away from here, and make you very happy,” said Wilfrid, 
feeling at that moment that no sacrifice was great enough 
to make for this piteous wreck. And it was he who had 
wrought this mighty wrong, a wrong so hopeless, so unre- 
claim able, so irretrievable that one word alone painted the 
realism of its darkness, and that word was “Despair.” Bet- 
ter a thousand times he had crushed out her life and left her 
dead on that horrible night, than to have “stole the rose” 
which made its fragrance and “left the thorn” to pierce her 
bleeding heart through the infinite time to follow. 

The whole atmosphere about him drowned his thoughts in 
deepest misery. The shrieking maniacs in the other cells, 
the iron bars of their crime-stained captivity, the grim gray 
walls and bare floors, all seemed to echo with every sound 
the hollow mockery of his presence there. There was a 
strange close odor in the place which seemed to stifle him. 
He wanted to go away, but something seemed to hold him 
as if he had been glued to the spot. 

The girl had begun to rock herself from side to side and 
two and fro in mournful monotonous rotation, her mind had 
gone back to its everlasting torment of unreasoning re- 
morse. Again, the baby’s eyes, from which she had moment- 


LIFE. 


399 


arily escaped, shone out of the darkness and burned into her 
brain, and again she shrank back farther and farther into 
her cell until the stone wall stopped her. 

The man, whose sinful lust had wrought this ruin, fought 
off the sight of his victim’s face with his hands. He pressed 
back the balls of his eyes until a sharp pain made him cease 
ere he blinded them forever. 

“Do you see them, too?” gasped the girl in a hoarse whis- 
per. 

Wilfrid shook his head, not looking at her. 

“I killed it — I killed it, I — it’s mother,” she panted, “and 
it was yours — and mine.” 

She sprang up and came and beat herself madly against 
the iron bars. “Take me out,” she shrieked, “let me go to it, 
let me go, I know where it is; come with me to the water 
where it lies with the fishes eating it, as they once ate my 
father. Ah,” she screamed, then with a long shuddering 
sigh fell exhausted to the floor, where she lay a desolate heap 
upon the cold, hard stone. 

An attendant, who had heard the scream, came up to Wil- 
frid. “You had better go now,” she said, “I am afraid your 
staying longer would excite her too violently.” 

Wilfrid silently acquiesced and turned away without an- 
other look at the girl on the other side of the barred door. 
As he followed the guard down the corrider his head was 
bowed and his shoulders stooped as if he were an old and 
broken man. 

Even after the great ]U’ison gate had closed on him and he 
stood beyond its pale, the blackness refused to lift itself from 
his guilty soul. lie raised his eyes and looked at the grey 
stone pile, the everlasting monument to human crime, and a 
.sick loathing of himself overwhelmed him. A line he had 
read or heard somewhere came back to him. “The bitterest 
pang of all, is to wear the yoke of your own wrong-doing.” 

Fearful of breaking down utterly, he hurried down the 
street; hailing the first cab he met he jumped in, ordering 
the man to drive with all haste to the depot. He had a plan 


400 


LIFE. 


in his head, an experiment, it might prove a fatal step, that 
which he was going to do, but he was desperate, as mad as the 
girl in the prison, whom he had left behind. If eyes haunted 
her, her’s did no less haunt him. He could not forget a 
single impression, they came back to him, each in turn, with 
horrible distinctness. There is nothing that thrills one more 
with cold terror than the gleam of insanity in the windows 
of a soul undone ! 

Wilfrid learned that a train would be leaving in half an 
hour. He paced the station floor restlessly; to his im- 
patience the short time seemed an eternity. 

That night at ten o’clock he found himself for the first 
time since his wedding day, knocking at the gate of Ballyhoo. 
The great portal swung back to admit him; he looked about 
the grounds, so familiar to him, and as in a dream came 
back in quick succession memories of all the strange, fate- 
ful incidents which had taken place there, some of which 
were figuring so darkly in his present misfortune and despair. 

Moonlight lay all over the place, bathing the grey wall 
white in its light, and showing every path in the garden, as 
plain as day. All was still, only one light burned in the 
great building, and that was low. 

Wilfrid, scarcely knowing why he did so, followed its 
gleam to the chateau whose tower rose like a silver white 
shaft in the night’s pale radiance. He did not go around 
and knock at the door, wFich was guarded as of old by the 
faithful lascar, but swung himself up onto the low balcony 
just outside the long open windows where his uncle had once 
loved to sit and dream. He had not been mistaken in the 
idea that had brought him hither. There she lay, fallen 
asleep, tired out even as she knelt to pray at th^ little stand 
beneath her mother’^ portrait, upon which th^ old general 
had kept red roses from the garden below. She had evidently 
slipped gently, gradually down until she lay a soft, sad, little 
bundle of sweetness, tlie moon shining full upon her, mak- 
ing whiter her tired face and loose clinging robe. 

Wilfrid drank in the beauty of the picture with love-de- 


LIITE. 


401 


vouring eyes. The next moment the sharp comparison of it 
to that other picture, Mary lying with disheveled prison 
clothes and head bowed low with despair on the dusty stones 
of a maniac’s cell, caused him to rise to his feet with a 
startled cry of agony. 

He brushed his hands across his eyes to shut out the sight 
which his memory pictured so vividly. 

Angela never once stirred in her deep sleep, no conscious- 
ness of the nearness of the one who had made and lost her a 
paradise, found an echo in her dreamless oblivion. She was 
worn out with days and nights of wrestling with the mighty 
problem of her own destiny. Her dual nature had strug- 
gled fiercely, the right against the wrong and vice versa. 
All the pain she was enduring, the sacrifice she was mourning 
for, was of her own making. She could have lived on for- 
ever with her love and the world no wiser, but for that other 
conscience which pleaded for moral right. All this day she 
had been wishing, wanting, and unconsciously waiting for 
the coming of her love. But Julian only had darkened the 
doors of her great house. He had seemed strange and not 
himself, she had thought. Mary’s condition had preyed 
upon his mind; the other trouble as it stood was terrible 
enough, but this last issue made everything hopeless. 

He had come to ask her of Wilfrid’s whereabouts, but she 
could tell him nothing, knowing less than anyone, for she 
had forbidden him to either call or correspond with Ker. 

Now, Wilfrid came, i)erhaps, bidden; who can tell, by 
some subtle message, transported in a spirit world, higher 
than our understanding, or maybe it was the fulfilment of 
the old prophecy that “coming events cast their shadows be- 
fore,” which l^d him unconsciously to the castle that night 
at that unusu„. hour, without even the certain knowledge of 
Angela’s presence there. At any rate there he was and there 
was his love, and naught between them — save a vision. 

He stepped from the balcony within the white and gold 
hung room. The low burning lainp on the table he ex- 
tinguished so that only the moon light lifted the darkness. 


402 


LIFE. 


Wilfrid knelt beside the sleeping girl and watched her, 
content to drink in her beauty. He wanted to catch her in 
his arms and pillow her head on his breast, but he was afraid 
to waken her and risk dismissal. As he knelt there the 
thought of all that might have been his by holy rights but 
for his damning sin came to him and made him curse the 
fate that led him to it. “How oft the sight of means to do 
ill deeds makes ill deeds done.’^ If he had never seen the 
girl? Why should it have been so ? Why did not an all-wise 
God let him pass her by in her low estate and innocence, 
leave her to a happy life and motherhood and to Julian’s 
well-deserved reward? 

So it was ever the way with human nature to blame the 
power that made it, instead of its own base weakness. 

He knelt there a long time, his mind filled with strange 
thoughts and impotent reasonings. Once he laughed at the 
story the children learn at Sunday School about being a 
good boy and you will be happy, and be a bad boy and you 
will be sad; “Julian had always been good and he was faring 
pretty badly, now,” he thought. 

“Oh thou, who man of baser Earth did’st make. 

An ev’n with Paradise devise the snake; 

For all the sin where the face of man 
Is blackened — man’s forgiveness give — and take,” 

he repeated defiantly. 

He stooped lower over Angela and saw that her slumbers 
were so deep that he could kiss her once without fear of 
awakening her. He felt an almost irresistible desire to 
strain her to his breast and rain such hot passionate kisses 
on the lovely face that she would cry out with pain, but he 
did not dare. If she had been awake he would have run any 
risks of such a lover’s feast, but there she lay, and in her in- 
nocent unconsciousness of his presence, he felt he must re- 
strain himself. 

“It would only make her burdens heavier and her loneliness 


LIFE. 


403 


greater if she saw me/’ he thought, and he started to steal 
away as he had come. But he would kiss her once; he must 
have something to carry away with him, some tender remem- 
brance of her sweetness and beauty to live on until they 
should meet again. 

He bent down over her, lower and lower, until his lips 
brushed the curls on her forehead. In the intensity of his 
farewell, his hands were clenched and his eyes blurred. 
Twice he reached out his arms to enfold her and twice he 
resisted; then, resolutely closing his eyes so as to shut out 
the loveliness of the gentle creature whose life he was thus 
shadowing, he rose quickly and stumbled, rather than walked, 
to the long window. He meant to make his exit as he had 
entered, by the balcony. How little a thing will turn the 
tide of events! As he stepped through the window, he mis- 
calculated the distance to the balcony and fell with all his 
weight to the floor. 

Angela, aroused, sprang to a sitting posture and faintly 
screamed. Wilfrid, whom she naturally took for a burglar, 
rose awkwardly to his feet and stood looking at her in silent 
embarrassment. She rubbed her eyes, and stared at him in 
dazed wonderment. As she recognized him she thought she 
must be dreaming or out of her senses. 

“You — how — where did you come from — and when,” she 
asked. 

“I came because I loved you, — by the train from Danne- 
mora — half an hour ago,” he replied, in broken sentences. 

“From Dannemora?” she questioned. 

“Yes, I saw her — she is quite — hopelessly — insane,” he 
answered in a low voice. 

“So they told me,” replied Angela, as she looked at him 
with pained, meaning eyes. “A terrible wreck of life and 
reason,” she moaned, the next moment, turning away from 
him. “Oh, Wilfrid — Wilfrid, how could you!** 

“Don’t,” he pleaded hoarsely; “I — I have borne all I can 
to-day. Spare me your reproaches.” 

“Forgive me, I am sorry,” she answered. 


404 


LIFE. 


“Angela,” said Wilfrid, “I was desperate to-night when I 
came here. I was mad with love and hunger for you. It 
seemed to me that only the sight of you could alleviate my 
black, black despair! You cannot imagine what a terrible 
hour it was for me — that hour spent in the prison. I felt 
that no hell could punish me to the extent that I deserved 
for what I saw before me — the consequences of my dastardly 
villainy. I had never fully realized my guilt until the mo- 
ment I stood before the iron-barred cell of that poor, mad 
child whom I had made a murderess. Her curls, once so 
pretty and silky, were matted and dusty with grovelling on 
the floor. Her hands, such poor, thin, little hands, clung to 
the bars, her face was pinched and white, and her eyes — 
vague with insanity! At times she seemed to recognize me 
and then she would fly from me, terror-stricken, her eyes 
burning with a bright, strange gleam of madness! God! 
It was horrible! It seemed as if I should go mad myself. 
In the presence of this awful realization, I set everything 
aside, even you, Angela, and I felt if she could only become 
sane again, I would do anything, anything to atone! But I 
was assured that her case was hopeless. I told the physician 
of my wish to eventually marry her. He said such an act 
would be criminally wrong, or at best a useless and senseless 
sacrifice on my part. And so I have come back to you, An- 
gela, as a husband to his wife, and now having done all in 
my power to make atonement for my sin, I demand that you 
take me to our home and to your heart again!” 

She drew a long, shivering breath and closed her eyes. 

“Go,” she said, so low that he scarcely heard the word. 

He walked towards her passionately, his arms outstretched 
as if to embrace her vise-like. She retreated from him, rais- 
ing one hand as if in warning for him to keep back, but he 
heeded her not and strode onward, his face livid with a fear- 
ful passion. 

“Rama !” she called, loudly. 

The next instant the faithful lascar stood in the open door- 
way. Wilfrid gave one glance, turned and was gone. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


UNTO THE THIRD AND FOURTH GENERATION. 

“Hell the shadow from a soul on fire.” 

— The Ruby at. 

Rushing on through the night, the train bearing Wilfrid 
to New York seemed to the feverishly excited young man, to 
farily crawl. Yet he was strangely happy in spite of a cer- 
tain foreboding of evil which had followed him throughout 
the day. 

In that long, passionate, farewell kiss of Angela’s had been 
born a new hope of love for the future. He was certain of 
her decision on the morrow. He was sure it would be for 
their mutual happiness. Her wifely sweetness had for the 
time being dispelled the sadness and horror of the day just 
passed. 

He would go and make hig peace with Julian. He had had 
a morbid longing to see and talk with his brother ever since 
the tragedy. He dreaded the interview, and yet when he 
remembered the Christian forbearance of the young minister 
where human frailty was concerned, he hoped the same len- 
iency would be extended to him. And to-night, he longed 
for sympathy and forgiveness. He wanted encouragement 
and advice; and Julian was the only one whose counsel he 
valued and whose kindness was never failing. 

He had always loved Julian more than any one else in the 
world until he met Angela. His first remorse had been for 
the wrong done his brother, rather than that done Mary. He 
gauged Julian’s sufferings by what he himself had felt since 
that night in Manila when Angela had bade him leave her 
for the sake of right. 


406 


LIFE. 


How he dreaded every single night in turn, made craven by 
his sin-stained conscience. The deep silence of the midnight 
hours had been full of horror for him for months. To-day 
had been the crowning agony, but during the past hour the 
tension had relaxed and he felt less unhappy and despairing 
than at any time since the discovery of the tragedy, follow- 
ing his misdoings. 

Yes, he would go to Julian and beg him on his knees, if 
need be, for forgiveness, sympathy and advice. Julian could 
and would help him he believed. He had probably forgotten 
his anger in the court room, for had not Wilfrid then de- 
nounced himself and proven his willingness to do his duty? 
His former dread of meeting him had fled and he was now 
ready and anxious to see him, to let him hear his story from 
his own lips and then do whatever his brother considered 
best to make reparation and atonement. 

Poor Wilfrid, perhaps, after all he was not so much to 
blame for what his shallow nature could not forsee and 
understand. He had never suffered once as Julian had, night 
after night wrestling with his crucified love; or as Angela 
had done with her dishonored, deserted wifehood. And yet 
he had suffered to the limit of his capability so to do. 

He had been so handicapped by the less desirable but more 
pleasant attributes of nature. His magnetism, his good 
looks, his joyous free and easy disposition, had all tended to 
increase the weaknesses which resulted in his downfall. 

His train pulled into Hew York about three o’clock in the 
early morning. His mother was out of the city as she had 
been on his return from Cuba ; as she had always been when 
most needed by her children. So he jumped into a cab and 
gave the address to the parsonage. The cabman stared a lit- 
tle at the direction which the eager, well-dressed young fel- 
low gave him; he wondered what was taking such a respect- 
able young man to such a part of the city at that time of the 
night. Wilfrid repeated the address sharply and the cabman 
touched up his horse and was off. 

As the vehicle drew up before the dingy, unlovely, little 


LIFE. 


407 


mission, looking unspeakably dreary and deserted in the 
silent night, Wilfrid’s heart contracted for a moment with 
the sickening foreboding which had followed him and which 
he sought vainly to drive away. He paid the cabman slowly, 
as though reluctant to be left alone, then mounted the low 
flight of steps and rapped softly, half fearfully on the door. 
No answer. He tried the knob. The door was unlocked; he 
opened it — and went in. 

********** 

Julian sat alone in the little study that had witnessed so 
many scenes that had ended in the fatal tragedies of so many 
lives. Only the bare walls and furniture were to be seen, 
minus the numberless little touches of comfort and graceful 
femininity which had made it so homelike but a little while 
before. The book shelves, robbed of their valued treasures, 
gaped wide and empty; the two or three fine paintings which 
had been the young minister’s only extravagance had gone 
the way of every other earthly possession to obtain money for 
Mary’s trial. 

No one knew or even guessed at the minister’s sacrifices. 
Too proud to beg or borrow, after his income and every 
vestige of the small real estate he owned had been used up, 
he had sold his fine library and pictures, even his watch had 
gone; Angela had begged to come to his relief, but he had 
refused all offers, and to-day he was penniless, absolutely 
destitute; he had not even eaten. 

Once he had asked a small loan of his mother, but she had 
refused, reviling Mary bitterly. He would not touch a 
penny of Wilfrid’s money, he would have died first. Every- 
where he went, every way he turned, he heard Mary’s crime 
condemned, until he longed to take her to his home, to gather 
her as a hen gathers her chickens under her wings, to shield 
and protect her from the insults and calumny of those whom 
she had once befriended. 

He alone knew and understood all the details of the poor 
child’s temptation and crime. He alone could believe abso- 


408 


LIFE. 


lutely her story and comprehended the insane workings of the 
unsettled brain which had finally driven her to infanticide. 
He alone had sympathy, wide and deep enough, to forgive 
the love which had wrecked her life. 

To his parishioners he could not appeal. The majority of 
them, bitter denunciators of Mary, had galled and angered 
him past endurance. His great love for the helpless, inno- 
cent child made him so pitiful towards her ! If all the world 
condemned, he would still be true, her champion, her lover, 
her tender, tender friend. Were all the world false, forget- 
ting her sweetness and youth, he would still be the same. 
True, true as steel and staunch ; aye, and as quick to avenge ! 
He was as changed from the Julian of other days, and yet 
the same, — the development of his former slumbering at- 
tributes of nature, making the difference. 

The peaceful, broad-minded, human-loving man was trans- 
formed in the fiame of passionate grief to a being of such 
mighty strength and heat of temperament, that the erstwhile 
simple preacher of the Gospel of Peace was unrecognizable 
in the love-embittered, storm-shaken man who still lived 
in the little parsonage, but no longer preached — ^Peace. 

The night had waned into the ‘‘wee sma’ hours” and Julian 
still kept vigil over the ashes of his love in the bare, cheer- 
less study. He was beginning to feel the nausea that comes 
from hunger, and being weak from fasting he had half dozed, 
and strange dreams troubled him. Half waking, half sleep- 
ing, he would rouse once in a while, starting up at the sound 
of his own voice, articulating hoarsely with terror as some 
phantom of horror chased through his weary brain. 

Once he dreamed that he saw Mary. She was chained to a 
pile of grey stones, the heavy irons cutting the red blood from 
her bare arms and wrists. Her naked throat showed every 
bone, the starved flesh pulling tight and thin over their 
skeleton network. Her hair hung a dirty mat about her 
sunken face where the hollows were like black pools. Her 
pale lips were drawn back from the clinched teeth in a hor- 


IIFE. 


409 


rible grimace, and her half-closed eyes rolled white and mad 
from side to side. 

The minister’s own face contracted in his sleep at his 
mind’s pictured misery. Suddenly Wilfrid came upon the 
scene. He was laughing as Julian had so often heard him 
laugh, happily, carelessly. All at once his eyes fell on the 
chained figure before him. He stared a moment with wide, 
horrified gaze, then laughed again and a whole concourse of 
people who had suddenly appeared laughed with him. The 
women pointed their fingers and the men cast evil, slurring 
glances. The pitiful, starving creature whom they taunted, 
opened her eyes and cast one terrible appealing glance at 
Wilfrid who stood before her. Some one in the crowd — some 
one strangely familiar — Julian stared hard, good God! — it 
was her father risen from the dead, and he spat upon her, 
and again Wilfrid laughed long and loud. The wretched 
victim before them, with one hoarse cry rolled her eyes up- 
ward, and fell back among the stones — dead! Julian, dumb 
with horror, gazed at the fallen figure with bated breath, and 
all at once it was no longer the hideous skeleton of Mary’s 
body, but her own girlish, pitiful, beautiful self, lying 
crushed and bruised like some fair lily trampled ruthlessly to 
the ground by cruel feet. As he looked and his sorrow grew, 
some one at his side laughed again. It was his brother. 

With a fierce yell of rage Julian struck him madly, blindly, 
once, twice, thrice! His strength in his frantic fury was 
tremendous. He felt fingers close about his wrists once, but 
he wrung them off and fought harder than before. His 
brother’s voice came to him in breathless, pleading remon- 
strance. Julian only laughed, a wild, triuumphant laugh, 
that made the air shiver with the empty reasonlessness of it. 

Suddenly there was a thud like some heavy body striking 
the floor and then a low moan. J ulian put both hands to his 
head and with eyes starting from their sockets, staggered 
from his chair. He tried to think, to remember. But his 
brain refused to act. Was he awake, or was he still dream- 
ing? He would have screamed aloud but his voice only 


410 


UFE. 


rattled in his parched throat. All about him were horrible 
fiend faces, and one called aloud to him: 

“Where is thy brother?” 

From subconscious familiarity with the Scripture, he 
answered as Cain of old: 

“Am I my brother’s keeper?” 

His overwrought brain framed the question from another 
accusing mouth: 

“What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood 
crieth unto me from the ground.” 

The minister staggered and stumbled forward against 
something lying still and rigid on the floor. He stooped to a 
kneeling posture and bent closer to the something to see — 
what it was. Lower and lower he bent until his face touched 
the cold one beneath him. He could hear the footsteps of 
people ascending the stairs. He made his way to the mantle 
and in the darkness felt carefully for matches to strike a 
light. With the first feeble spark, he noticed that his hand 
was slightly soiled with a tiny smear of blood. He stared at 
it with foolish wonderment and fear. His hand trembled 
and the light went out as he gazed. The footsteps came 
nearer, he remembered the something on the floor and ap- 
proached it. The door of the room opened and Aunt Betsy 
and Mr. and Mrs. Crowe entered and the light gleaming in 
from the hallway revealed to Julian his brother, Wilfrid, 
stretched senseless at his feet. 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE END. 

“For I will be merciful to their unrighteousness, and their sins and 
their iniquities will I remember no more.” 

— Paul’s Epistle to the Hehrews. 

Towards midnight of the memorable day of Mary’s trial, 
the incidents of which we have already recorded, the anxious 
watchers around Julian’s bedside began to discuss plans for 
the night. 

It is true that Julian’s sleep had been dream- troubled, yet 
he had been resting so well that the doctors had returned to 
their homes, leaving instructions that if any change for the 
worse should occur they were to be sent for immediately. 

Wilfrid, although worn out by the intensity of his own 
suffering, begged to be allowed to sit up with his brother 
until morning. Mr. and Mrs. Crowe and all assembled there, 
were equally anxious to be assigned to the same duty, but 
Wilfrid pleaded his case so urgently; in fact, as Julian’s 
nearest relative, insisted upon his rights over and above the 
others, until the post of midnight nurse was finally accorded 
to him. 

Alone with his brother, he soon became aware that the 
sufferer’s dreams were of the trial and of the possible conse- 
quences which might follow the conviction of Mary. Again 
Julian pleaded to the jury, and later upbraided them 
because they had convicted Mary, — then, in anguished 
tones, Wilfrid heard him talk of Mary’s madness, of Danne- 
mora, of broken-hearted Angela and of himself, — and al- 
though the words he used concerning him were very bitter, 
he sought not to make them lighter, yet with almost a 
woman’s gentleness he bathed his brother’s fevered head and 
did his best to still the maddening thoughts, which like great 
angry cloudy before a mighty stonn, were gathering in his 
tortured brain. 

Hours passed thus before Julian opened his eyes and when 
he did, Wilfrid, hoping that he would recognize him, spoke 
to him softly. 


412 


LIFE. 


For answer Julian sprang from the bed and seized him by 
the throat. During the struggle which followed, Wilfrid, 
being the stronger of the two, could easily have attained the 
mastery, but he felt himself to be not only utterly deserving 
of punishment but so anxious to receive it at his brother’s 
hands that he offered little or no resistance to the half-mad- 
dened man who held him in his clutches and rained blow 
after blow upon his head, or upon any part of his body that 
came within his reach. 

Fearful of the results to Julian if his excitement should 
continue long, he struggled with him towards the night lamp, 
which was burning very low upon a table in another corner 
of the room. He succeeded in blowing it out, but the action 
only seemed to increase the rage of his brother, for he dealt 
him a stinging blow between the eyes which felled him to the 
floor and rendered him senseless. 

The noise of Wilfrid’s fall awakened those who were sleep- 
ing in the room below; as quickly as they could scramble 
into some clothes they ascended the stairs and to their aston- 
ishment found the brothers as we have pictured them at the 
close of the previous chapter, Wilfrid unconscious and the 
light of reason just beginning to dawn upon Julian’s be- 
wildered brain, as he stood over the mute and outstretched 
form of his brother which lay at his feet. 

Angela, who, unconscious of the events once enacted there, 
had been the occupant of Mary’s little room since she had 
come to live at the parsonage, was the next to enter the room. 
In a glance she recognized what had happened. 

“Wilfrid, Wilfrid,” she cried, as she raised the blood- 
stained face of her husband to her lap and stroked it tender- 
ly. “Dear God; he is dead!” Then turning to Julian, who 
stood gazing at Wilfrid and trying to speak words that would 
not come, she sobbed, “Oh, Julian; what have you done? 
What have you done ?” 

“Is he deadf gasped the minister, with a inigKty effort; 
his eyes appearing as if they were about to start from their 
sockets and his face reflecting the whiteness of death. 


LIFE. 


413 


^^No, Julian; he still lives/^ replied Kichard Crowe, who 
had been feeling Wilfrid’s pulse and listening to the beating 
of his heart. He now rose to his feet and approached his 
elder nephew. 

^‘Then God be praised, I am not a murderer,” said Julian, 
the extreme tension upon his drawn features relaxing, as he 
leaned upon his uncle’s shoulders and tottered towards the 
bed. ‘‘It seems as if I had lived a thousand years in the last 
few seconds,” he continued, as both aunt and uncle gently 
laid him down, smoothed out his pillows and softly bade him 
rest. “Like Cain of old, I fancied that the stain of my 
brother’s blood was upon my hands, the thought e’en now is 
maddening torture. But he was cruel, heartless, and he 
laughed as he told me of the sufferings of poor Mary, con- 
victed of a crime for which he and not she should have suf- 
fered, and he seemed glad as he told me of her pitiable rav- 
ings in a maniac’s cell in the madhouse at Dannemora.” 

“Of what are you talking?” questioned his uncle, “Mary 
has not been convicted, she is not mad and has never been to 
Dannemora.” 

''Not convicted! — Not mad! — Never been to Dannemora?'’ 
gasped Julian, as he sat up in the bed and gazed with ques- 
tioning anxiety into the faces of those around him. 

“Why, no!” replied his uncle, “you have been here but a 
few hours, it was only yesterday that you were taken ill, — 
don’t you remember? You broke down during your plea to 
the jury. Mary is still in the Tombs, for the jury has not 
yet agreed upon a verdict.” 

“And my darling may yet be free?” he murmured. 

“Yes, Julian; we have every reason to hope,” replied his 
uncle, “and at the best but a few hours to wait.” 

“I thank God that the fearful visions I have pictured were 
only imaginative dreams !” whispered the minister gladly, as 
he sank back upon his pillows. His eyes closed, but his lips 
moved and those around him knew that he was breathing to 
his Maker a silent prayer for Mary’s freedom. 

********** 


414 


LIFE. 


Daylight had begun to dawn before Wilfrid regained con- 
sciousness. 

He had been carried to the room occupied by Angela, — 
the room that had once been Mary’s,— the room in which the 
seventh commandment had been broken, the fruit of which 
sin had been the cause of such a world of bitter agony and 
suffering. 

It was a strange fate which had brought him there, he and 
his child-wife, who now tenderly nursed him, — the little 
Angela ! 

She sat by the side of his bed, but his back was towards 
her and he was not aware of her presence as his eyes opened 
and he saw only the sunshine peeping through the window out 
of which he had once climbed, feeling a murderer, after the 
commission of his crime. 

Slowly, very slowly, the realization of his whereabouts 
dawned upon him, and when it did he sat up in bed terror- 
stricken and rubbed his bruised and smarting eyes. 

^‘Why — why — of all the places in this world — am I here?” 
he gasped, but his surprise was even greater as he turned and 
saw the pale, sad face of Angela, who sat watching him, by 
the side of the little bed. 

It seemed as if she were there as an accusing angel, min- 
istering to his needs, but aware of, and silently asking him 
why he had so grieviously fallen into the ways of sin. 

^^Angela, Angela, for the love of heaven turn your eyes 
from mine,” he cried as he buried his face in the pillows, 
“they seem to burn into my very soul and make me feel like 
a greater wretch than I really am. Ever since that night I 
left you in Manilla, I have been trying so hard to make 
reparation. I have been a brute, a beast, the worst thing a 
man could be, but I did not realize it at the time. I don’t 
believe one ever does. If they did there would surely be 
fewer crimes committed in the world. When the wrong was 
done I never thought of consequences. I was infatuated, fool- 
ish, hot-headed, caring only for self-gratification. I was idle, 
thoughtless, dilly-dallying away the hours with a half -formed 


LIFE. 


415 


fancy for a pretty girl. When I look back now and analyze 
my feelings at the time, I see clearly that I never loved her. 
My vanity was piqued when I thought she loved Julian. Of 
course, that fact makes my actions all the more contemptible, 
but it is true, nevertheless. I honestly tried to break away 
from her weeks before. I tried to tell Julian of my base 
treachery and ingratitude towards him, but he would not 
listen. I stayed away for weeks at a time. When I came to 
the mission that New Year’s night, she was crying and I felt 
sorry for the child and was carried away by her intense love 
for me. She was so passionately fond of me, so innocently 
reckless in her display of it. Then, the pleading in her blue 
eyes for a caress or some expression of love in return. Ah, I 
was a weak, guilty fool and could not refuse her. I knew to 
what it would all lead, and she — she knew nothing. I am 
only a man you know — and my baser passions were stronger 
than my thoughts of right and duty. And now all this mis- 
ery has happened, — and for the future, — God pity us all!” 
he ended, covering his face with his hands. 

Angela had not moved or spoken during his long explana- 
tion; when he had finished, she raised her eyes to his. 

‘‘Well?” she said, hopelessly. 

Wilfrid held out his arms, but she shook her head slowly. 

“Angela,” he pleaded, “I — I have done what I could or 
rather I have been more than willing to do everything pos- 
sible to make matters right, but if that is denied me in this 
world, why, why ruin your life, too, and make mine even 
more despairingly miserable than it will always of a neces- 
sity be? If Mary should be freed and Julian wants to take 
her for his wife — and I know he wants her, dearest, 
and would be miserable without her — then why not 
take me back to your heart and life, my wife, my darl- 
ing! You have done your part, made your sacrifice, 
done all that heaven itself could demand for right 
and justice. Darling, darling, take your own reward. My 
worthless life is devoid of value, I know; but yet, you love 
me, unworthy as I am. It will make a better man of me 


416 


LIFE. 


and God knows I need redemption! Alone, I am weak and 
wicked; but with you, dear, to guide me and your sweet eyes 
to hold and uplift with their innocent purity, your faith in 
me to give me faith in myself, I will learn to be a better 
man! Make my sin a stepping-stone to my salvation. Help 
me, help me! You are my only hope — my only hope.” He 
broke down and sobbed aloud. He was like a drowning man, 
clutching at a straw. 

Poor Angela stood looking at him in helpless uncertainty 
as to what was the right thing for her to do. His argu- 
ments were certainly reasonable and were furthered by the 
desire in her own heart. 

“What shall I do, what shall I do,” she cried nervously 
wringing her hands together. 

For answer Wilfrid sat up in bed and took her two hands 
in his. 

“Wait until the jury decides the fate of poor Mary,” 
pleaded Angela. 

“No, dearest; give me your answer now,” he begged. 

“You must wait until then; after Julian and Mary have 
decided upon their future I shall be quite satisfied with my 
decision as to ours and there can be no after regrets,” she 
argued, gently. 

As the hours passed, he continued to plead, but Angela was 
firm in her reso]ve — and waited. 

********** 

At eleven o’clock, a carriage was driven rapidly down the 
street and drew up at Julian’s door. Its occupants were our 
friend the Major and the penitent Mary. 

The jury after being out all night had brought in a ver- 
dict of “Not Guilty,” and Mary was free; free to go again 
into the world and to begin life anew. 

As she entered Julian’s darkened room, a look of ineffable 
gladness came into the sufferer’s face. 

“Mary!” he said softly, as he stretched out his right hand 
towards her, “have you come home at last?” 


LIFE. 


417 


“Yes, Julian,” she answered, falteringly; “if you are quite 
sure — that — that — you want me — now.” 

She crossed the room and standing by the bedside, placed 
her little hand in his. 

“Want you? — I have always wanted you,” he cried. “My 
home and life have been so desolate without you.” 

“But the past?” she said simply, as great tears bedimmed 
her eyes and fell upon her pale, wan face. 

“We will forget the past, dear,” he said; “the Master for- 
gave those who had sinned far worse than you have done and 
knowing your sweet and trusting nature, as I do, I realize 
that, with the lessons of your past, this world will in the 
time to come contain no better woman than the little one I 
want to remain with me here — now and always!’* 

A smile, the first one that had lighted her countenance 
since she left the parsonage so many months before, came 
into her face and chased away the tears. She felt that she 
had indeed come home! 

Home to a man, the nobility of whose soul was great 
enough to realize that an erring woman has an equal right 
with sinning man to the forgiveness that should be accorded 
to a great mistake. 

She fell upon her knees by the side of his bed and wept 
again, but the tears now were of joy and gratitude and they 
formed the awakening of an endless love. 

And Julian, very weak but intensely happy, raised her face 
to his and implanted upon her lips his first kiss. 

The door opened and into the room came Angela and Wil- 
frid, hand in hand. 

Julian’s right hand was placed tenderly upon Mary’s, — 
and Wilfrid, not wishing to disturb the picture, crossed to 
the other side of the bed and placed both of his hands upon 
the left hand of his brother. 

“Can you forgive me, Julian?” he asked. 

“Yes,” replied the minister, “your sins were as scarlet, 
repentance has' made them as white as snow; they were red 
like crimson, they are now as wool.” 


THE END. 


DEC 9 1904 


INCOMPARABLE FOR QUICK AND ACCURATE INFORMATION. 


BE HAD OF BANKERS AND BROKERS ONLY 


AlTOTATiniM DPrODH issued on the first 

MOINTHl^Y 1 1 1V71N KCWVfKl-'f OP EVERY MONTH. 

A Critical Analysis of Steam Railroad and Street Railway Operations. 

BBNTON»S niTATATiriM niTinP issued on the fifteenth 
noDnrHL.Y op every month. 

; A Trustworthy and Essential Digest of Industrial Corporations. 
NxoiN^s nPAIM =. PPOVimOM PPrOPn issued about the 

NTHl-Y VJK/\li^ rlVV/VlOiV/lN K.l--Vi<'V/KLP> 1 Sth OF THE MONTH 
Contains Daily Prices, Conditions, Exports, etc. 

COTTON QUOTATION RECORD, 

A Complete Statistical Review, 

COFFEE QUOTATION RECORD, 

Daily Prices, Imports, Exports, Visible Supply, etc. 

MONTHLY QUOTATION CHARTS, '|,Tp«V«n\"h^ 

Illustrating the various Fluctuations. 

Be5[R?BRi.v SECURITIES INVESTMENT GUIDE, 

January, April, July and October. 

THE C. MONT. BENTON CO., 

PUBLISHERS, 

■532 WEST 28th STREET, NEW YORK. 

TELEPHONE, 2143 CHELSEA. 



LIFE 

® 

by 

Charles \N^crHEN Chasb 

and 

Eugene FkANCKi 



Entered according to Act of Coi^rese in 
the yeer' 1904 by C. Mont, Benton. of New 
VbrjLm the ofnee of Librarian of Cot^resa. 
Waahii^ton O.C 






r » 

■:'4 


V). ■, , 



', \yi 



' "■ ■ ■ 

7 ■ . < ' j > * * 4»** ■ ■ t * ’ ^ V ( ji w^toS '* ^ ' * ■ ■ ''/ ^' *^'*1^ • '■ * *'i ^ fe "k . <'■* ‘i ’ i 

J ;■; ‘ .'.• vVj^ty, kf -r^i 


.■vV'- 

A .' » 

• . /'i 

\ . 

i 

< 

* , ' '■ 

' X 

•i ' .V 

j » 

, i'- 

• '.w '■■■'. 

, t ‘ 

** ' ,' 

( 

'‘''•4/‘ 

Va 




I 

'■♦ \C ', .. 


'X -1 

• '* . 


g'.r . ^ • * t , t’w* ',v “/ W\ ■vav'^'^ ' 

•■ .V, fcjf 

,v.’ ' ‘ •■ ;'^i|.i.'-, 

• , , •■•... 1 ■ 1 . ■••rm • . '•.*i>»»x. 


■H - 


i.',’ 


r . I 

' » 


A'.' 

' • , . t* 

* J 


o^'t.'- , .r^ 


tr^TC - • •''•. / ' r:'j -i'.rv . .i -y* 


i. 

% 


S < 1 ' 

kvy^ V ^ 

•. '"’ V.' 

' * *^ 5 ^' ' 'i‘f Xl 


I N -,? 


*.■-<. A - . '. ./i 



; 


• I 



V? 


\ 4- .. 











j V/'.' V , TV 



V' tr; ?a\‘ ■ .'•. I r’ 

’••" ^'. V. ., . 


i*: ., . *K:s$Siai^sf t» 

■jMM-m 

■ .vr',;" •;■•;<,• 'W 

3 pI‘ I 



■r\ ■ -'- ' 1 ' •■' 



'L* . 


•rr»»^V '- '- ‘y 

. • ^ i V '.*. 



o •< i * tfV 



■ "'V' ''‘V'•>^M•’' J|, '5tU\ 'V.^ 

• v** ... ,yvi‘.Wt.’iGflV 4 ii s 



n,\: rfrv >■■■-■ ^iaww#-. • 


rv; <, V-», 








' WBm 

-V ' ^ * . A< .»f.- * ' t i .p^n 
'A '* v'/f ' " 'A ' ' * Itn 

V ' '' ' \ . 



' '''I ' ••l.’’-'^;' »..V. 

' f ^ V* »-N •? -f * •iir* j_i.- 1 ■ 


'I ' 7% " " '' 





• f‘i 


“■w fV^L'V * ' ^ '.V' V '. Vv' lA'^V 

'■ ,Vr*' 

', «/ 


', r I 


Jl , 





.,1 .'. . ,»••* , \' f i 'i ‘ 

W:p,:o^yj^' 


*1. ’ 






.. ■ 

P,«7'.:';;. :,.; ; 


ll 




\i 


% yl 


) V 




*.F 


i'.'y 




J^' 


w 



u 


-i ■ * - 


■'fd 


4 


' << 






■C* t 


i 


i.;.‘;x;'', 

Mt 


•'.;] ? ■:>; 'd|?f •¥/-»; J 



•» 

V 




'♦•V 


V 'J'. 


^4' /i S’ , ) Md. ' 


• 4. 



• • 

.t 




■il I* 




• f. t - '‘7 
•m v I/' , I 


} v 


># J*J 


I ' f 


:^i 




It- w-i'''" ■' ''-'^ ■'”' ■ iHHI' '■ ' 3 


V ''7. , d /i 

:>i 


H 




■ : ! s y JHroi^^ -f ■ /•■ v/ , v ’ 

d’.^'A.' ;■ -T^v; ' ‘ /''',• 

•■ '■‘* • V ' d -.^.^•• '1. ’8a^l»/'/U ft' '1. 


MKI ' I I ' * , , ' • • ’ • ^ A 

•'I Vi * ' • ># ' . • 

«*; v-./.: ,k ■ ■ . ; , '/StvIljSra 

,' . ^ ‘' ,' *, Ir i*» -V ‘ 


i^3.7 1 





' ' ' *' ..*,* * > .( ' f»w 'J ^*■ ' ' f ■ » I • ,• ' 


■®! 


. » 1^ A ^ 

f.i 


t k 

^ i 


/X 




♦f- 


V'-VV'' 'j^' 

»A>d| 

fw'' ■>" 


. . ■ • • >' " ' 

- , t, ■ 'I < 

,' ''t 

- d'^., 


. '• f 

^ ; 



-.:. <'.f . - 



■' '‘d' ’dd 

. .*^VvV ,*,v ;.,/.V7'V ;, ■ 


,M. '7T' 


I / 


r /u * ^ ^ ' 

'• 1 '•*j I • ' 1 


.fiXV 




/• 


■,.■ Jk 




'i.'i^s\ . ryji,';T,JHMSfc .,/i:^: v , - ■ 'v,-/ d iv’dd . / 


' » 





. 1 . *5 ' ’ t 


t v'' / 




Jv . 




•d’ 


' • V ' - ■ / '. ■ s'j • v« IKJIk-vv '1' ' • ’ 

k * • iLjtij'y " ^ ‘ ^ t ' ' !■ ’ *1 » ' ‘'* 

. ‘d d ■•': ' ’"'li 



.c>,. 



• . I 


(.,» 




LM 


» ' ' 


• 'Viil 


-.'i 


4 / 

t 



‘ /.' 


A I 


• • 




» ' '’^\d.,.r\ 7 Qu ^ 

■ . '■ Vv 




V. ’’.vv 

■ '. j . ', ; ; ?• ' ^• 

s;W*rir‘; •, 



» Y-» 

.' - ■ ['■:> ■ V- 

« % ♦ • ' ' 'j • . ■^ • * ■ V 

'*.i-*dd<.;' ' ■ ■' 

* # • ». /. - ■ 






’■ J: yf 


>(*■ 




I , 


’’■'^dv 

\:m 




•. 'Ji» J . J.A ■; 


>,- • ■ 


, I' 


4 I. 


•• >w 


’iv.d 
..J 

' V .' 


» 

'■ • 


• V 


n<r . a:. " 


• s 




I* 




fiC^rl-#'. 


' r 



























